


An Alchemy of Stardust

by fandammit



Series: Between Dark and Darker [1]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M, Kabby Trick or Treat Exchange, Vera lives!, empath!Vera, secretwitch!Abby
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-31
Updated: 2016-11-12
Packaged: 2018-08-28 05:52:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 28,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8434144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fandammit/pseuds/fandammit
Summary: Abby Griffin is a witch and Marcus Kane is no fool.Season 1 retold as a witch AU.





	1. Blood and magic

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Kabby Trick or Treat gift exchange on Tumblr for @effiestrinkets. I hope you enjoy, m'dear!

Abby Griffin wakes to darkness.

She rolls over, part of her still dreaming, to keep the alarm from ringing out. Her fingertips touch the clock and she pauses, the cold metal shocking her into wakefulness.

For a moment, she’d forgotten. Thought she’d still lived in a world where she was wife instead of widow, loving mother instead of hopeful betrayer.

The alarm rings out in the empty room, clanging against the steel walls of her empty room.

There is no Jake. There is no Clarke.

She’s alone. Jake is drifting through the cold reaches of space. Today Clarke will be hurtling through it in a last ditch effort to find hope.

* * *

She looks at the tiles on the screen and says a silent prayer to whatever gods or saints or spirits might be listening.

The scientist in her can’t believe they exist, but the scientist in her has long since been rendered irrelevant by facets of her that are strange and inexplicable.

She looks over at Kane, his back ramrod straight and his mouth drawn firm in a tight line. A grimace falls across her features at the sight of him. She couldn’t sway him as a fellow Councilor, knew it was foolish to even try as a mother. And so 100 children were sent to the ground to buy more air and more time.

It had been his final say that had gotten Clarke the last spot on the dropship.

She doesn’t know whether he meant it as an added cruelty or a peace offering. Decides it doesn’t really matter and lets herself hate him either way.

* * *

Thelonious is bleeding out in front of her, his heart slowing even as his eyes flicker open.

She presses Jackson for more blood to keep Thelonious alive even as she knows they’re over the limit. They don’t need anesthesia for what comes next, but there can be no substitute for blood.  Jackson looks at her with hesitation, regret creeping into his voice even as he questions the legality of keeping Thelonious alive. She takes the choice out of his hands and hooks up another blood bag herself. She’ll be arrested, but at least she’ll die knowing she did everything she could to keep Thelonious alive.

She flexes her fingers and takes a deep breath in. She can do a lot of things as Chief Medical Officer, but saving the life on the operating table below her will require a miracle that goes beyond her medical expertise.

Luckily, she’s a miracle worker.

She shoots Jackson a glance and he busies himself with leading their head nurse out of the operating area. When he comes back, he strips off his gloves and lays them carefully on the table next to him before laying his hands carefully along Thelonious’ bicep. Thelonious stops flickering in and out of consciousness and falls back into a deep, dreamless sleep. She knows he won’t wake until they want him to.

Abby works to quickly extricate the bullet from where it’s buried deep in the tissue of his intestines. The forceps and scalpel feel like extensions of herself, and she easily finds the bullet. There’s a satisfying plink of metal on metal as she removes the ball of metal and lets it fall on the table next to her.

Then, she takes off her gloves and rests her hands on either side of the bullet wound. Her hands grow warm as she directs all her energy towards the path the bullet took inside - repairs the rip in his intestines, separates out the leaking acid, heals the scorched tissue. It’s a long, laborious process; she can feel the warmth leaking out from her and into Thelonious, the wound so grievous that even Jackson and eventually the nurses in the room sway and feel faint.

Finally, _finally_ , it’s done. Her hands are stiff and cold, the fingernails a disturbing shade of blue. Jackson, too, rocks unsteadily on his feet as she grabs a needle from him.

She manages to thread a needle and close up the wound with neat, even stitches. When she’s done, she takes a deep, steadying breath in and watches as Thelonious does the same. She sits down on the chair next to the bed and begins shivering uncontrollably, the feeling only abating slightly when Jackson moves to wrap a blanket around her. She takes in deep, gulping breaths as Jackson braces himself against the operating table as a wave of tremors overtake him.

In a few hours, she’ll return back to normal. Her skin won’t have the sickly pallor she knows it’s taken on right now, she’ll be able to take in breaths that aren’t shuddering and painful in turn. By then, Jackson will lift the sleep from Thelonious.  

He’ll live and it won’t be thanks to Abby Griffin, Chief Medical Officer of the Ark.

It will be because of Abby Griffin, witch.  

* * *

Kane comes in as she and Jackson are watching the tiles on the screen. He moves next to her and, without breaking his gaze from the screen, asks her a question.

“How much blood did you use, Abby?”

She ignores the question to which he obviously already has the answer. She wonders why he didn’t come in trumpeting her arrest.

She doesn’t appeal to their friendship, which is a laughable prospect. The word itself would be an overestimation of their working relationship these past ten years. She doesn’t ask for mercy, a concept she’s sure he’s forced himself to forget, or else never bothered understanding in the first place.

Instead, she bites out the truth in the sharpest way she can phrase it.

“Breaking the law to keep you from becoming Chancellor was the easiest decision I’ve ever made.”

The briefest flicker of irritation moves across his face before his features flatten out into blankness once more.

“Jaha’s awake. And he’s pardoned you.” He looks down at Abby and shakes his head. “If it were up to me, I’d see no choice but to sentence you to death.”

She huffs, anger pushing out the feeling of relief at his news.

“There’s always a choice, Kane. Hiding behind the law absolves you of nothing.”

He says nothing at that, simply steps closer to her and pitches his voice low so that only she can hear it.

“And what are you hiding behind, Abby?”

Her heart leaps into the back of her throat, the blood in her veins thrumming with fear. She flicks her eyes over to him and then back to the screen in front of her.

“What do you mean?”

He steps in front of her, blocking her view of the screen, and stares at her intently.

“You know we’ve had the lowest mortality rate on the Ark since you became a doctor? You’ve done things that most other doctors would consider miraculous - and you’ve done them over and over again. Even the nurses who were there when Jaha was brought in say he should’ve died, with or without the extra blood you gave him. And yet.”

He doesn’t finish his sentence, merely looks down at her with bright, curious eyes and a tilted head, as though she’s just another problem he’s working through in his mind. She grits her teeth and forces herself to look at him directly.

“And you’re, what, accusing me of being good at my job?” She glares at him and balls her fists, a covert attempt at stilling her shaking hands. “I care about every single life, Kane. I do whatever it takes to make sure my patients survive.”

She hopes he mistakes the tremor in her voice for bottled up anger rather than the fear that it is.   

He looks at her for a long moment before nodding and stepping away from her.

“That makes you an excellent doctor,” he finally says, his voice flat in a way that tells her the statement isn’t a compliment, “but a terrible councilor. You choose to save the life, but I choose at every turn and at any cost to make sure that the entire human race stays alive.”

“That’s the difference between us, Kane,” she says, her voice the cold scrape of steel on steel, “I choose to make sure that we deserve to stay alive.”

* * *

“Jaha’s essentially good as new again.”

Kane falls into step with her as she heads down to Mecha Station. His voice is low, the words casual, but his glance at her is careful to the point of being studious.

“The mark of a good surgeon,” is all she says, careful to keep her voice even and her eyes directly in front of her.

Kane hums thoughtfully in the back of his throat.

“A full recovery from a gunshot wound to the stomach in less than two weeks? That’s not just good doctoring, that’s basically unheard of.” He shakes his head and smiles at her in some approximation of mirth. “Just another miracle from Dr. Abby Griffin, I suppose.”

Before she can reply, he angles away from her, his body shifting into a more cold, detached demeanor.

“You’ve been down to Mecha Station nine times this past week. Is there something I should be made aware of?”

She stops abruptly and rounds on him, her eyes narrowing in angry disbelief.

“Are you tracking me, Kane?”

He smirks, though the movement doesn’t reach his eyes.

“I’m tracking everyone, Abby.”

“Well, well,” a voice rings out from behind the two of them. Abby turns and sees Nygel leaning against the wall, an amused look on her face. “If it isn’t my two favorite councilors.”

She leans forward and comes away with Kane’s datapad in her hand. It’s an impressive bit of magic made to look like regular sleight of hand - a way to hide in plain sight, Nygel had always said. It makes Abby nervous, even without Kane’s added scrutiny, but Nygel’s posture is easy and carefree as always as she tosses Kane’s datapad back and forth between her outstretched hands.

Kane grabs it in midair and stuffs it back into the inside pocket of his jacket.

“So are you two slumming it to see if our lovely case of strep has been properly eradicated?” She turns to Kane. “Or are you coming down to see your mother? She does miss you so, Kane.”

Abby doesn’t know what seems to cause Kane more anxiety - the mention of sickness or the mention of his mother. What she does know is that he immediately shakes his head and steps back from the two women.

“Just keep me informed,” he says with a pointed look at Abby before turning back around.

She turns back to Nygel and raises an eyebrow.

“Case of strep?”

Nygel shrugs.

“It’s the only thing that’d explain you actually coming down here so often.” She reaches through Abby’s jacket and pulls out an apple she’d stored there earlier, takes a big bite just to irritate her, she’s sure.

Abby glares at her.

“You need to be more careful, Nygel,” she says, though at this point she doesn’t really know why she ever bothers. Since childhood, Nygel’s spent her time pulling objects out of people’s bags and pockets and jackets, practically brandishing her ability to become immaterial to anyone who has working eyes.

Nygel barks out a laugh.

“You’re one to talk. I’m a just a lowly thief with excellent thieving skills, you’re a doctor who basically keeps bringing people back from the dead. That last stunt you pulled with Jaha - not your most discreet.”

“I was saving his life. Was I just supposed to let him die?”

“You say like you haven’t done exactly that before.” Nygel’s stance is still loose and easy, but the words have an undertow of venom to them that makes Abby want to look away.

“This was different. Kane is next in line to be Chancellor. We wouldn’t be safe with him.”

Nygel laughs, the sound of it sharp enough to cut glass.

“We aren’t safe now, Abby. No one is.” She tosses the bitten down apple core to Abby and wipes her hands down the front of her pants. “Anyway, a little more discretion would probably be wise. Kane’s already tracking you and I have no intention of hiding pertinent information from such a distinguished member of the council if I thought I could get some benefit from it.”

Abby shakes her head in disgust. No honor amongst thieves, after all.

“So, why cover for me now? Why even tell me this at all?”

Nygel tilts her head and shrugs.

“I don’t like you, but we’re still on the same side. Plus, Vera likes you and even I know better than to piss off that old lady.” She looks down the hall before stepping back and leaning casually against the door to her right. Then, she steps through the wall and disappears from sight.

* * *

It’s been years since Abby’s sat down to have tea with Vera. Not since she was a newly minted doctor struggling with the appropriate use of her powers. But the dropship will be ready in two days and she figures she owes at least a nominal goodbye to the witch who’s been a mentor and a role model all these years, albeit from afar.

She doesn’t mention the plan that will either end with her shooting through space in a hundred year old dropship or shot into space for committing a crime, but Vera has an idea of her fears and anxieties anyway.

More than an idea, of course. Hard to hide anything from an empath.

She studies Vera as she busies herself with making tea. Wonders how such a warm woman could’ve raised a man as cold as Marcus Kane.

“Do you ever worry about your son finding out?”

The question slips out before she can fully think about what she’s saying. It’s an unfair, off limits question, the topic of Kane one that brings a melancholy so deep that Vera can’t help but project it.

“I’m sorry. You don’t have to answer that,” she says.

Vera turns around with teacups in hand and smiles.

“It’s fine, Abby.”

She sets the cups down and sits across from Abby.

“No, I don’t worry about him finding out. Whatever else he is, Marcus is still my son. And I know the kind of man I raised, even if he’s tried to make himself forget who that is these last few years.”

“And what kind of man is that?”

She has to admit that she’s curious to hear about Kane as a child. He’s always so cold and removed, his interactions so perfunctory and stilted, that’s it’s hard to imagine him as anything but a fully formed adult. Perhaps he was never really a child, she thinks, only a miniature version of the man he is today.

Vera doesn’t say anything at first, just looks down at her tea and traces the rim of the cup.

“He used to love stories about the ground,” she finally says, meeting Abby’s confused look with a warm smile. “He’d read science and history textbooks for fun, spend hours theorizing about how Earth might’ve changed in the past few decades. He used to draw, did you know that? Pages and pages of what he thought the ground might look like.”

The image of Kane - a small, solemn child with wide brown eyes - head bent over a beautiful watercolor image of a forest tugs at the fringes of her mind. It’s a fleeting image, blurred at the edges in the way an empath’s emotional echoes always are. What remains, though, are the emotions flowing out from this childhood version of Kane - a feeling of contentment and a pervasive sense of hope that leaves Abby nearly breathless.

She takes a deep breath in as the echo recedes.

“That’s - .” She shakes her head in attempt to clear it. “What happened?”  

Vera smiles, though there’s a touch of sadness at the corners of it.

“He learned what he was taught - that you were an expendable generation.”

“Transitional,” Abby says, though the word rings hollow between them. She looks up to meet Vera’s gaze. “We’re a transitional generation.”

Vera gives her a gentle look.

“How much difference is there, really, between transitional and expendable, Abby?”

Before she can answer, Vera moves forward to refill their tea cups. She taps her fingers on the table, considering.

“I truly believe that it wouldn’t matter to him if I were a witch or not,” she says after a long moment. “I know the two of you don’t see eye to eye, but he’s not a bad man, Abby. He’s become a hard man, but he’s still an honest one. He really believes he’s doing what’s necessary.”  

Abby sets down her cup and shakes her head.

“That doesn’t make him a good man, Vera. It makes him an unpredictable one - maybe even dangerous.”

Vera raises her eyebrow at Abby and nods.

“I might say the same thing about you, too.”

* * *

On the last day before the council votes to murder 320 people, she visits Sinclair.

She waits patiently until they’re alone, then steps close to speak to him.

“There’s nothing that you can do?”

She knows it isn’t fair - he can replicate matter that already exists, but he can’t resurrect a dead system any more than she can resurrect a dead patient. Still, there’s a desperation crawling through her chest that pushes the question out. Sinclair’s always been the most skilled among them, willing to push his powers the furthest.

Sinclair breathes out heavily.

“I can’t make something out of nothing, Abby.”

She levels a long, even look at him because, sometimes, that seems like exactly what he does.

He meets her look with a sardonic one of his own and shakes his head.

“The only way I could buy us more time would be if I suddenly learned to conjure up more air.” Something in the way he says it makes her think that he’s already tried - more than once, probably, if she had to take a guess. “Maybe,” he finally says, “maybe if we’d had someone to teach us, we could do more.”

She sighs. It’s an old, useless wish, repeated endlessly by each generation of witches born on the Ark. She shakes her head wearily. Three generations in and they’re still children fumbling with powers they can barely understand, yearning for someone to just show them how.

She picks up a spare part in front of her and sets it down again. Asking him was a long shot, but they’re witches with impossible abilities. She’s learned not to take that for granted.

“I need a pressure regulator.”

Sinclair does a double take, then leans forward on his elbows.

“Needing to regulate pressure in medical, Abby?”

She sighs.

“The less you know, the better for the both of us.”

He nods at that and picks up a nondescript scrap of metal in front of him, places his hands on either side of it. Nothing happens for a long moment. Then, slowly, methodically, the metal begins to move. It shapes itself, shifting and rearranging like a thing alive. A few minutes later, Sinclair sits back in his chair, a sheen of sweat across his forehead. He grabs the newly formed pressure regulator and drops it in her hands. She bundles the part underneath her jacket and thanks him. He nods and returns to the work in front of him.

Before she leaves, she stops at the door and turns around.

“Raven Reyes.”

Sinclair looks up and arches an eyebrow at her. It’s not a question, but he answers it any way.

“She isn’t one of us.”

“Are you sure? Youngest zero g mechanic in 52 years is pretty extraordinary.”

Sinclair shakes his head.

“She’s extraordinary all on her own.” He furrows his eyebrows at her. “Besides, you’d be more likely to know than I would, Abby.”

She shrugs. Detection is an imprecise system. A child comes in with a blistering fever and once it breaks, they either return home the same as before or are suddenly able to do things that defy comprehension. Not all fevers bring people to medical, though. And not all powers manifest in ways that are easy to pick up.

“Just wanted to make sure I didn’t miss anything,” she says, but doesn’t elaborate any more.

Sinclair gives her a long, piercing look but doesn’t ask any questions.

“Whatever you’re planning, Abby, I hope you know what you’re doing.”

She nods and turns to go.

“I’m doing whatever it takes, Sinclair.”

* * *

She runs into Nygel on the way back to Raven.

The woman sweeps her hand through Abby’s jacket and comes out with the pressure regulator in tow.

“Tsk, I’m hurt, Abby,” she says, turning the part over in her hands. “You know you could’ve come to me rather than Sinclair. At least my parts are real and guaranteed to work, not this conjured up bit of metal and magic.”  

She thrusts her hand back through Abby’s coat and drops the regulator back into Abby’s inner pocket.

“Interesting though,” Nygel drawls out, the words drawn tight and sharp like the edge of a knife. “So what exactly does the chief medical officer need with a pressure regulator?”

Abby arches an eyebrow and looks at her coolly, though she can feel panic rising up in the back of her throat.

“To regulate pressure,” she replies drolly, voice flat and unaffected.

Nygel’s eyes take on a jagged, predatory gleam.

“Raven Reyes was down here not too long ago, asking for the exactly same part. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that?” She smiles at Abby. There’s something unsettling about it, as if she has too many teeth crowding into her mouth. “No? I’m sure Kane will find it interesting enough, then.”

She keeps her face blank as she backs away from Nygel, nearly sprinting once she gets to the end of the hall. However much time she thought she had, she now has much less of it.

* * *

Raven plunges towards the ground as Kane locks handcuffs around her wrists.

“Abby, what have you done?”

She looks up from the window and over at him, hate and fear and despair taking root in her gut and twisting her features into a glare.

“Clarke. I know she’s - .” She stops herself once she realizes she doesn’t know how to end that sentence. A look that might be pity flashes across Kane’s face.

“I know, Abby. I saw her tile go dark. I’m sorry.” His expression hardens as he motions to the place that Raven’s pod just was. “But now you’ve killed another child with your refusal to accept reality. What happened to every life matters?”

Fury bubbles up within her. Only the guard’s firm grip on her cuffed hands keep her from stepping forward.

“I’m trying to save all of us, can’t you see that?”

Kane looks searchingly at her.

“Are you? Or are you just trying to prove to yourself that your daughter is still alive?”

* * *

She doesn’t die, but she doesn’t save anyone, either.

As she steps over 320 limp, cold bodies, she thinks about how completely she’s managed to fail them all. She’s used to the limits of government - all the ways laws and bureaucracy can fall short. She knows the feeling of too few supplies or not enough time on the operating table.

And her magic, as wondrous and impossible as it is, can only go so far.

She can rearrange broken limbs with an invocation, can conjure up otherworldly ways to repair failing organs, but she couldn’t keep the air in the lungs of 320 innocent parents and siblings and children.

* * *

Raven’s voice rings out through the speakers and Abby’s knees nearly buckle underneath her.

They don’t, though only barely. The sight of Kane’s stupefied face and Clarke’s voice ringing through the air buoy her up. The room spins as she hears the competing voices of Raven and Clarke, news of unimaginable things like a livable Earth and survivors on the ground.

Even as she leads Clarke through an impromptu surgery over weak radio signals, her mind can’t stop racing over what she knows.

The ground is lush and livable. The hundred weren’t sent down in vain.

And her daughter - her beautiful, impossible daughter - is alive.

Even the storm passes and the boy makes it out alive.

It’s seems too good to be true.

And so, of course, it is.

The ground is hostile. Their kids are dead or dying or in danger.

And Clarke -

Clarke weeps even as its Abby’s heart she breaks.

“Dad’s dead because of you,” the loathing in Clarke’s voice obvious even through her sobs and the static. “You turned him in.”

“That was never supposed to happen,” she cries out, begging for forgiveness even as she tries to explain, “Jaha was supposed to talk him out of it.”

But the distance is too far and the reality too far removed.

“I’m done talking to you,” Clarke bites out, bitter and caustic.

The radio goes silent in Abby’s hand, the rift between her and Clarke jagged and overwhelming.

Just another wound her magic cannot heal.


	2. Fire and witchcraft

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He doesn’t let himself think of a world in which he doesn’t find her, in which he bursts through the blistering grate and finds nothing but dead bodies or empty space. He’s spent over a decade being acutely aware of Abby Griffin - her motives and her moods and her movements. He refuses to believe that she could disappear from the world completely without the world taking notice. Without him suddenly feeling her absence.  
> \---------------  
> Marcus Kane, from "Unity Day" through "The Calm"

The day Marcus Kane sends 320 innocent people to their ultimately needless death, he tells Jaha that one decision does not define a man.

It’s a good thought; true, too, for men like Thelonious Jaha - men who are good and merciful and compassionate.

It just can’t be true for men like him.

He thinks about those words as he stares up at the ceiling in his room and recites the names of each of the 320 who died for nothing.

He thinks about those words as he stumbles through the halls and sees the husbands and wives and mothers and sons of all the people he’s sent to die.

He thinks about those words as he drinks shot after shot of acrid moonshine, wishes he could chase the words and the accusatory looks and the reality of what he’s done to some kind of oblivion.

He can’t, though. He’s trained himself to be able to look every harsh truth, every bitter reality, without flinching away. Now, he can’t look away, no matter how desperately he wants to.

Jaha can take comfort in the fact that he cannot be defined by one decision.

But all Marcus can see are the weight of all his decisions bearing down on him, crushing him, smothering the air from his body the way he pulled it out of 320 others.

* * *

He willingly visits his mother for the first time in years, waters the tree she’s spent his whole life tending.

“You haven’t done that in years,” he hears his mother say, her voice soft and warm. “It’s healing, don’t you agree?”

He looks over at the tree and nods mutely. The cut from Wells is nearly fixed, time and water fitting broken bark back together.

If only it were that easy, he thinks.

He looks past his mother and sees the outline of the door to Section 17. Something within him fractures, his eyes blurring for the first time in years.

“I was so sure, mom. I was so sure I was doing the right thing.” His throat is tight, the words barely louder than a whisper.

“I know, Marcus.”

He’s turned away from her, but she wraps her arms around him anyway.

He holds himself stiffly. He doesn’t shrink away from her, but he doesn’t sink into her embrace, either. It’s a comfort he doesn’t deserve.

“I swore an oath to defend these people,” he says, choking on the words. “Instead, I killed them.”

Despair opens up in his chest, cracking open his heart and nesting in the hollows. He closes his eyes and feels tears track down his cheeks.

“I don’t even know who I am any more.”

He drops his head and covers his face in his hands, tries to muffle the sobs that he can no longer swallow back.

His mother tightens her grip on him momentarily before letting go and turning him to face her. She rests her hands on either side of his face, brushes his unkempt hair back from his eyes. It’s an old movement, familiar from childhood, motherly in a way he hasn’t let her be for years. He finds himself leaning into it, love and warmth and affection spreading out through him at her touch.

“I’ve done terrible things,” he admits in a quavering voice. He knows he deserves anger and sanctions and punishment.

His mother gives him neither.

Instead, she offers him forgiveness.

“God will forgive you, Marcus,” she says quietly, “the question is will you be able to forgive yourself?”

The words reverberate in his mind as he finally falls into her embrace.

Perhaps the prospect of forgiveness is what he deserves after all. Somehow, it feels far more painful than his deserved punishment ever could.

* * *

He tries to visit his mother more often. She’s steadying and constant in a way he’s never needed until now - now that the ground beneath him is precarious, his movements unsteady and questioning.

One afternoon on the way back from visiting her, he runs into Abby.

He sees her less now that she’s off the council, though he’s found her occupying his thoughts almost daily. He sits in council meeting after council meeting, debating and arguing about the Exodus plan. He finds himself snapping at Diana constantly, the image of her sitting in Abby’s spot disquieting in a way he can’t completely explain.

Perhaps it’s because he can’t help but feel like they need Abby now more than ever; Abby, with her wild compassion and unshakeable moral compass, could balance each of their impossible decisions in a way he doesn’t know how to.

He slows down in the hall to give her privacy as she speaks quietly to a man and his young daughter. After a minute, the father smiles at his daughter and ruffles her long blonde hair before reaching over and shaking Abby’s hand. Abby smiles, though even from where Marcus is standing he can tell it doesn’t reach her eyes. As the two walk away, the little girl’s hand clasped firmly in her father’s, he sees a look of abject misery pass over Abby’s face. It’s a look he’s seen on her ever since Raven’s call broke through the speakers. It makes his heart ache in a way he doesn’t want to look too closely at.

He comes up beside her and makes sure to keep his eyes turned away. The last thing Abby Griffin wants from him is pity.

“Everything ok with those two?” He asks, gesturing to the retreating backs of the man and his daughter.

He catches her glance. It’s laced with a suspicion that he knows is completely fair, even as it stings.

“They’re fine,” she replies, her voice flat, “his daughter just had a pretty bad fever, but she’s alright now.”

She glances down at the object his fiddling with in his hand and the look on her face softens.

“Did you just come from seeing your mother?”

He blinks in surprise, then nods.

“I did. How’d you know?”

She gestures to the packet of tea in his hands.

“The scent of her special blend of tea is pretty unmistakable.”

He smiles at that, a simple upturn of his lips that feels creaky and unused.

“That it is.”

He’s never been able to figure out how his mother makes the tea or even what’s in it. He doesn’t even know if the blend of the tea really does something to soothe him. Perhaps it’s all in his head -  the smell and taste of it bringing him back to a simpler time in his life. At this point, he’ll take whatever he can get.

Abby’s glancing over at him now, studying him with a look that he can’t quite place.

“She’s happy that you’ve been visiting her again,” she says after a moment. “It was always so hard on her that you wouldn’t.”

The words are hard, but her tone is less so. Much less harsh than it could be, certainly softer than he deserves. Surprise bubbles up within him, both at her tone and her words. He has no doubt the words are true, he’s just surprised that she knows it, too.

He clears his throat and tries to keep his voice as even as possible. Wants her to know he’s making an observation, not an accusation.

“I didn’t realize that you and my mother were close.”

He must succeed because she simply nods.

“She’s been there for me for a long time. She’s always been someone I could lean on.”

He nods at that, though his mind wonders just how Abby Griffin came to be friends with Vera Kane. Silence rolls over the two of them, but not as jagged as it once might have been.

He slows as he gets closer to the main control deck, turning the words he wants to say over in his head. Finally, he rolls the bag of tea through his fingers and breathes in sharply before he speaks.

“Abby, I know it doesn’t mean anything now, but I’m sorry I didn’t believe. In what you were trying to do. In - in you.”

She stares at him for a long, drawn-out moment. Finally, she nods but doesn’t say anything. There’s an uncertain kind of curiosity flickering behind her eyes, as though she’s not quite sure what she’s looking at.

He nods back at her and turns to head into the main deck.

“Kane?” He turns to look at her. A look that might almost be appraising flits across her face. “You’re wrong. It does mean something.”

* * *

There’s a ringing in his ears as he gets up from the ground.

He shakes his head and coughs, dust and smoke clouding the air around him.

“Kane!” Jaha cries out. “Find out who did this!”

He’s slow getting up, feels weak even though he was far enough from the blast site to escape being hurt. A shiver rolls through him despite the press of bodies in the room and he can feel a headache developing behind his eyes. He looks towards the stage and sees four bodies on the floor - the other councilors who hadn’t gotten away in time. He narrows his eyes and scans the room for Jaha, feels a wash of relief when he sees the man standing a few feet away from him, unhurt and wide-eyed.

All around him, people sway unsteadily to their feet, unhurt but looking as frail as he currently feels.

He looks to his right and his heart thuds painfully in his chest, all the air suddenly sucked out of his lungs.

Abby is leaning over his mother, her hands pressed against Vera’s chest. He can’t see his mother’s face, only knows that there’s blood everywhere.

He grits his teeth and gets up, off balance in a way that doesn’t make any sense and only serves to frustrate him. He stumbles over to Abby, falls to his knees and takes in his mother’s face, afraid he might only have come in time to see the light disappear behind her eyes.

She blinks up at him, eyes clear and bright as always. There’s a large, seeping stain of blood across her chest, a wide gash in the middle of her shirt.

But no wound.

Or rather, there is - but it’s a long, thin scratch, barely deep enough to bring blood to the surface, much less account for the amount of blood on his mother’s shirt. Next to Vera’s arm is a long, wicked shard of glass half covered in blood - as though it had been dipped in it.

He looks at the shard and back at his mother’s wound and tries to make sense of the impossible.

“Marcus,” Vera says, her voice strong and commanding. She grabs his hand and tugs herself into sitting position. “Help Abby.”

The headache is fading as the room comes back into focus. He looks over at Abby, his eyes going wide at the sight of her.

Panic lights in his chest as he reaches out and runs his hands over her arms, scans the lines of her body. She’s pale to the point of translucence, her fingertips an alarming shade of blue, her lips bloodless and thin. Her cheeks are hollow, eyes sunken in way a that’s almost skeletal.

“I’m not hurt,” she whispers, voice trembling as she forces out the words. A shiver lances through her, once, twice, then in a long, continuous roll through her body, the shaking so violent that he can hear her teeth clack together painfully in her mouth.

He quickly shucks off his jacket and wraps it around her. She manages to give him a grateful look, then doubles over and starts taking in short, labored breaths. Panic burrows into the pit of his stomach and turns over into full-blown terror.

He feels a hand grip him painfully on the shoulder and turns to look at his mother. Her eyes are calm but even he can see the anxiety in the lines of her face.

“Take her to medical. Wrap her in whatever blankets you can find. I’ll send Jackson as soon as I can.”

He nods and turns his attention back to Abby, wraps an arm around her shoulder and gently tries to tug her onto her feet. She attempts to push herself up, but the shaking is too severe, her legs too weak to carry her. She ]collapses against him, her head lolling onto his shoulder, her hand gripping the shirt at his chest.  

He hesitates for a moment, then leans down and slips his other arm beneath her legs, lifting her from the ground completely. A sigh escapes from her mouth, but all he can think is how disturbingly light she is in his arms.

He grips her tightly against him and strides from the room, taking long, hurried steps towards the medical bay.

After a moment, he glances down at her; her complexion is not quite as drawn as it was moments before, but there’s still a blue tinge to her skin that brings a wave of anxiety crashing over him. He tightens his hold on her and quickens his pace.

“I’ll be fine,” she murmurs, barely loud enough to hear.

He blows out a breath and shakes his head, angry and afraid and confused.

“Abby, what happened to you?”

She lifts her head from his shoulder and stares up at him, hard and unblinking, before she answers.

“I had…to save your mom…whatever…it took,” she grounds out slowly, the words pushed out by sheer force of will.  

He looks down at her, brows furrowed tightly.

“And what did it take?” He asks softly, trying to understand exactly how it is his mother’s even alive right now.

But she only shakes her head at that and rests it back down against his shoulder. He wants to ask her again, force him to answer her, but the shivering overtakes her body once more, redoubling its efforts. Her breathing takes on a painful, shuddering wheeze, as if even the few words she spoke to him were too taxing on her body.

He turns into the deserted medical bay and lays her gently on the nearest bed, wrapping her in the blanket at its foot, then stripping all the surrounding beds of their blankets and packing them on top of her.

Still, she continues to shiver, her skin sallow and worn.  

“Abby,” he says desperately, eyes tracing the hollowed out features of her bloodless face, “what do you need? How can I help?”

She shakes her head at him even as she draws in a convulsive, painful breath.

He feels cut open and raw, as though his heart is wrapped up in a string of razor wire. He grips the railing and turns his hands, his knuckles cracking loudly. The bed is shaking with the force of her shivers. On impulse, he reaches up to check her pulse; her heart is racing but her skin is ice cold.

“Abby,” he says again, his voice cracking with fear, “let me help you. There must be something.”

She hesitates and he feels a swell of hope, but then she simply shakes her head a second time. Her focus drifts in and out, as he sees an unfamiliar look cross her face. It flashes bright and quick, a lightning bolt of emotion that he only recognizes because it’s the same feeling that’s currently lying heavy in his veins -

Fear.

Cold and creeping, deeply rooted and close to overwhelming.

He looks closely at her and feels an unpleasant clap of realization.

His fear _for her_ , hers is something else altogether -

Fear _of him_.

He stares at her, dumbfounded. In all the years he’s known her, in all the numerous and vicious fights he’s had with her, he’s never once seen fear cross her face.

That it should manifest now, when it seems obvious that he wants nothing more than to help her, is both perplexing and humbling.

He crouches down next to her, bringing himself eye level. Some irrational desire to reach out and brush the hair back from her face nearly overtakes him. He flinches away from it, tangles up his hands in the edge of her blankets instead.

“Abby,” he murmurs, his voice quiet and careful, “if there’s something I can do to help you, I want to do it. You don’t - .” He sucks in a breath, then exhales the words in the next breath. “You don’t have to be afraid of me.”

Her eyes go wide. She doesn’t move, but he can see her carefully weighing his words. He takes that as encouragement to go on.

“Abby, whatever it is - just tell me what I can do.” She closes her eyes and he continues on, a pleading note to his voice. “I owe you this. You - you know I owe you. Whatever you need, I’ll do it. As long as it helps you. Please.”

She opens her eyes at his words and gives him a long, piercing look. Then - finally, finally, she nods her head slowly, the movement barely discernible through her shaking.

He breathes out a sigh of relief, the vise around his heart loosening.

“What do you need?”

She closes her eyes and takes a wheezing breath in.

“Your hand.”

It’s an odd request, but at this point he’s just glad for the opportunity to finally do something useful.

He reaches under the mountain of blankets to find her hand. Her fingers are freezing even underneath the blankets; he wraps both hands around hers in attempt to warm them up. For a moment, nothing happens.

Then, he feels a shiver go through him, a creeping sort of cold that turns the air in his lungs to ice. His headache returns, sharper and louder than before, pinpricks of pain behind his eyes. The warmth from his fingertips seems to leech from him as Abby’s hand grows warm between his. He watches through darkening vision as a bit of color returns to Abby’s wan complexion, the overlay of blue retreating from her face. She takes a long, clear breath in, then releases it slowly, one last shiver going through her before her body stills. She takes in another even breath and pushes it out again, a sigh that’s nearly contented.

He, in turn, suddenly feels faint and fuzzy, as though the air is slowly being drawn out of his lungs. He sways unsteadily on his feet, his hand going slack around Abby’s. Abruptly, almost violently, she draws back her hand from his and presses it up against her chest.

He leans heavily on the railing before him and closes his eyes. A wave of nausea passes over him, then recedes. He can’t quite piece together what just happened, so instead he focuses on the strong, steady cadence of Abby’s breathing, the stillness of the bed beneath him. The world rights itself under him, the headache dulling to faraway ache at the back of his head. He takes in a deep breath and finds it unencumbered and even. He looks up at Abby.

There’s a warring look that’s half anguish, half gratitude set across her features. She takes another deep, steady breath in; they don’t say anything for a long, heavy moment. Then, she reaches across the blanket and takes his hand, squeezing it gently before looking up at him with gratitude in her eyes.

“Thank you, Marcus.”

* * *

Before he checks on the guards at the Exodus ship, he stops into medical to see Abby.

She’s at the far end of the station talking to Jackson, their heads bent closely together. Even from where he’s standing he can see how much better she looks, a mere two hours bringing back life and color to her face.

She’s shaking her head at Jackson, a sad sort of weariness weighing down her movements. He watches as she brushes off Jackson’s hand at her shoulder and turns towards her desk at the front of the medical bay.

“Abby?” He calls out.

She looks up at him and blinks rapidly, surprised. She walks over to him but doesn’t say anything. Simply looks at him with that same curious uncertainty he’s seen every time he catches her eye.

He clears his throat and tries to ignore the rapid pace of his heart. Her stare is unnerving but not unwelcome.

“Jaha wants us both at the dropship. He wants you to check the medical supplies and I need to make sure it’s still safe to launch.”

She nods. He waits by the door while she speaks to Jackson, then falls into step beside her as they make their way to the service bay.

“Everything ok - in there?” He asks, gesturing to Jackson and the medical bay at their backs.

She’s quiet for a moment. When she speaks, her voice is filled with regret.

“Six people died at the Unity Day bombing because of me.

“Abby, you were -.”

He cuts off the sentence abruptly when he realizes he’s not sure how to put into words exactly what she was earlier.

“I was selfish,” she finishes up for him. “Those six people had acute injuries, but they weren’t fatal. That means there were six people who would’ve lived if I hadn’t - .” She stops abruptly and looks away from him, studies her hands carefully. “I meant what I said earlier - I’m glad saved Vera. Whatever it took, I’m glad she’s alive. I just…” She sighs heavily and looks up to meet his gaze. “I didn’t realize how much it would take.”

She looks so desperate and forlorn that, for a moment, all he wants to do is reach over the rub a hand across her shoulder. He pushes that thought away and pitches his voice soft and low, tries to comfort from a foot away from her.

“You did what you could, Abby.”

She shakes her head.

“I did what I wanted,” she says, twisting her hands in front of her. “It’s not the same thing.”

He lets the silence hang heavy between them. He’s trying to parse through all of Abby’s half statements and hanging mysteries, but it’s impossible. It’s trying to fit together a puzzle with only half the puzzle pieces and no idea of the complete picture.

Instead, he focuses on the things he can get answers to.

“You seem like you’ve recovered from earlier.”

She glances over at him and shrugs.

“I have.”

She doesn’t offer any more details, though it’s clear by the tension in her face that she expects him to.

“I’m glad,” is all he says instead and leaves it at that.

He catches a glimpse of her expression - gratitude and surprise rolled into one. He has to smile at that; there’s something warmly gratifying about being a pleasant surprise to her. For most of the time he’s known her,  he’s been little more than a predictable frustration in her eyes.

“Marcus,” she says quietly. He knows his heart should not thump heavily in his chest at the way his name sounds in her mouth, his brain should not point out how much he wants to hear it again.  

They do anyway.

He moves in closer to hear, ignores the part of him that points out he could hear her just fine from where he was at.

“Thank you again for helping me earlier.”

The corners of his mouth turn up as he nods.

“Thank you for letting me.”  

He waits for her to say something else. When she doesn’t, he pushes a little, just to see what he can get.

“I don’t suppose you’ll tell me what exactly happened?”

She chews on her lip and looks away.

“I…” She turns to him, head tilted, expression hopeful and hesitating at turns. “I want to.”

He can tell by the way the words tumble out of her mouth that the admission surprises her. Before he can reply, Diana Sydney comes rushing out of the Exodus ship service bay.

“This launch should be delayed at least until you’ve questioned the terrorist that set that bomb,” she declares without an ounce of hesitation. “I put word out to my people and just heard back. His name is Cuyler Ridley. He’s a mechanic who lost his wife in the culling.”

He thinks for a moment.

“Yeah. I recognize him,” he admits.

“So what makes you think he did it?” Abby asks, skepticism evident in her tone.

“He turned himself in,” Diana says as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

Abby’s eyes narrow at Diana before glancing over at him with a doubtful look that he’s sure he returns.

“Where have you been, Diana?” he asks, “Why did you leave the pageant early?”

Diana looks at him, affronted.

“Well, thank God I did, or I’d be dead right now. I guess we’re both lucky.”

He wants to roll his eyes at that. Settles for a sardonic half smile instead.

“Stay where we can find you,” he says instead, his voice hard enough to be a command.

“Where am I gonna go, Kane?” Diana asks, though there’s a breeziness about it that rings false to him. “Be careful. Ridley’s dangerous.” She leaves the two of them and disappears back into the service bay.

He turns to go, but stops when he feels Abby’s hand on his arm.  

“You should be careful, and not just of Ridley. I don’t trust Diana.”

He huffs and gives her a grim smile.

“That makes two of us.”

She nods but doesn’t let go of him.

“Marcus,” she starts, then trails off. He can feel her fingers flexing anxiously around his arm. He’s suddenly struck by an irrational wish that he hadn’t worn his jacket this morning, followed closely by an absurd desire to reach out and rest his hand on top of hers. He settles for stepping in closer to her.

She tips her head up and looks at him steadily, as though she’s made up her mind about something.

“After you see Ridley, come find me.”

She waits for him to nod, then squeezes his arm and disappears into the service bay.

* * *

The Ark shudders and goes dark around him, but he manages to pick himself off the cold steel floor with little more than a bruise across his temple.

“You’re too stubborn to die,” Jaha says later, and Marcus can’t help but agree. He can’t die without atoning for all that he’s done; refuses to move on without some kind of redemption to leave behind.

As he searches through the quiet stillness of the shattered Ark, he realizes that he’s too stubborn for a lot of things -

To listen when Jaha says to let him die.

To stop looking for survivors even though it’s next to hopeless.

To believe that Abby didn’t somehow make it, because she’s just as stubborn as he is.

Sinclair mentions the service bay and he feels his heart thud heavily in his chest. He can barely stick around long enough to hear an explanation before he finds himself heading towards exit of Earth Monitoring, pausing only long enough to give his mother in a hug and explain where he’s going.

“Is it safe?” She asks, wrapping her hands around his.

He doesn’t answer her question, just squeezes her hands and says, “I have to try, mom.”

She huffs at that but nods.

“Do you think she might be alive there?”

“There’s a chance. It’s possible that Abby might have - ” he stops abruptly. There’d been no mention of Abby from his mother, but there’s no doubt in his mind that she’d known who he’d been thinking about as he looked from room to room.

He runs his hand through his hair and sighs.

“Every life is important, mom,” he follows up, his words unsure even though he means what he says. Every life _is_ important to him. But with that awareness comes a second, more disconcerting realization - that now, somehow, some lives mean more to him than others.

* * *

His hands are burning, the smell of charred flesh mingling with scent of fear and perspiration.

Still, he crawls forward, ignores the fire in his hands and up his arms by focusing on Abby’s last words to him.

_Come find me._

He repeats it over and over in his mind, a mantra that pushes him on even as the skin peels back from his hands and sweat drips and sizzles on the ground around him.

He doesn’t let himself think of a world in which he doesn’t find her, in which he bursts through the blistering grate and finds nothing but dead bodies or empty space. He’s spent over a decade being acutely aware of Abby Griffin - her motives and her moods and her movements. He refuses to believe that she could disappear from the world completely without the world taking notice. Without him suddenly feeling her absence.

He beats back the grate and pulls the lever, yelling out loud as the handle burns through the already raw skin of his hands. He somehow manages to hook up the device he dragged through the maintenance chute, rushing into the airless room.

He frantically sweeps his flashlight across the faces that are rising groggily to their feet, his heart sinking as he sees that none of them are Abby. The beam of light lands on one last body, crumpled in the corner and unmoving. Her face is turned away from him, but he could recognize the slump of her shoulders and her wild, thick hair anywhere.

He nearly sprints across the small span of space, coming down to his knees as he grabs Abby by the shoulders and turns her around, cups his hands around her face.  

She’s taking in short, shallow breaths. He knows she must be alive, but the sight of her closed eyes and limp body is causing his chest to constrict painfully.

She takes a deep breath when he says her name. He almost laughs at that, the panic in his chest loosening but still on the edge of hysteria. He’s smiling now though, relief settling across his nerves, elation pumping through his veins.

“Abby, wake up,” he says insistently, needing her to open her eyes and assure him that she’s ok. He runs his thumb across her cheekbones, rests his fingertips above the pulsepoint at her neck.

Her eyes flutter open and she takes in a gasping breath that makes him want to throw his hands up in celebration. He settles down beside her instead and lets her fall into his shoulder, gives her a moment to suck in the cool air that’s currently circulating from the now open doorway.

He waits until she’s breathing normally, then reaches down at grasps her hand.

“C’mon,” he says, tugging her up. “We need to get you out of here.”

“What are you doing here?” She asks dazedly as he helps her to her feet.

He shrugs easily, as though he didn’t just crawl through burning metal and oppressive heat to get to her.

“You told me to come find you.”

She manages a small smile at that but doesn’t say anything else.

He chalks it up to her dehydration and exhaustion that she doesn’t ask any more questions, simply leans against him and lets him half carry her out of the stifling room.

It’s only later, when they’re sitting across from each other in the flickering half-light of the mess hall, that she probes deeper.

“Why’d you do it?” She asks, fingers clasped around a half empty bottle of water in front of her.

“What?”

“Go looking for survivors. Rescue Jaha from Earth Monitoring. Crawl through that burning maintenance shaft.”

A dozen different responses stream through his mind, all of them too close to the truth or not close enough. He could admit to himself how much she means to him in the dark, oppressive heat of the maintenance shaft, but it seems next to impossible in the cool, quiet air of the deserted mess hall.

Instead, he settles on the safest bit of honesty he can manage.

“Because every single life matters.”

She gives him a long, steady look, then nods her head. After a moment, she stands and motions towards the door.

“Come on. Let me take a look at your hands.”

“I’m not sure how much you can really do. Medical sustained some of the worst damage.”

“I don’t need anything from medical,” she says cryptically, then heads towards it anyway.  

He furrows his eyebrows in confusion but follows her down the hall.

They turn into medical, the overhead lights shining unsteadily, beds and shelves overturned haphazardly.

She directs him to a surgical table at the far end of the room and closes the privacy curtains around them.

She brings her hands out in front of her, palms up, and looks at him intently.

“Give me your hands.”

He raises his eyebrow at her but does as he’s told, gingerly resting his hands on top of hers. Abby wraps her fingers around his hands.

A soothing coolness slips over his palms and up his arms, the burning sensation stilling to numbness. Then, he watches as his angry red burns recede, grow smaller and less red until they’re gone completely. Five minutes later and he’s staring down at smooth, even skin - the only evidence of his blistering skin are quickly fading blotches of pink.

His eyes go wide as he looks up at her. He’s sure his jaw is hanging open. For a long, tense moment, all he can do is look at Abby, dumbstruck and amazed. What he’s just seen is unbelievable. What’s he just seen is incredible.

What he’s just seen suddenly explains so much.

“What…just happened?” He finally asks, his words hushed with awestruck wonder.

“It’s - .” She stops and bites her lips, looks down at her hands as though they hold the answer. As far as he can tell, they do.

She sucks in a steady breath through her teeth and exhales, looking up at him with an unwavering gaze.

“I’m a witch.”


	3. Truth and Power

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “They’ve never known? Not even the Chancellor?”
> 
> She shakes her head.
> 
> “It’s safer that way. Not everyone is like me.”
> 
> No one is like you. 
> 
> The thought flashes through his mind, sudden and unwelcome and inconvenient. Only a lifetime of practiced stoicism keeps it from skittering across his features.

She says the words with a confidence that she doesn’t feel.

It’s not that she’s never said them aloud before; she’s had to many times - to confused children and frightened teenagers and angry adults.

The difference is that everyone else she’s ever said them to had been witches themselves, her words a confirmation, a soothing balm, a breath of relief. At the very least, those three words were an assurance that they weren’t crazy, that what was happening to them wasn’t singular in nature.

Marcus needs none of those things, but she finds herself wanting to share this part of herself anyway.

As she meets his eyes from across the table, she thinks about the man she sees.

She’s spent the last decade or so looking at Marcus Kane from across a table and seeing him a certain way: a rigid, cold man who lives his life in the measured lines of law and tangibility, rational to a fault with a practicality that precludes compassion.

She hadn’t been wrong. But she also knows it wouldn’t be right to think of him that way now. Not after all he’s done and seen in the past two weeks.

She studies his face in the long, quiet moment that passes between the two of them. She supposes she could think about all the ways she might have judged him wrong, brace herself for the consequences of telling Marcus Kane her most carefully guarded secret.

But all she can think about is the overwhelming crush of feelings that radiated out from him when he collapsed into Vera’s arms the day after the culling - despair and regret draped across the lines of his body and the features of his face, self-loathing so strong she had difficulty understanding how he didn’t collapse under the weight of it. She hadn’t meant to witness the exchange with his mother - had meant to slip away unnoticed when she saw him walk up to Vera.

Instead, she had stayed, rooted in place by the realization that Marcus Kane was no longer the man she thought he was. That the flat villainy she prescribed to him could no longer hope to contain him.

Since then, she hasn’t stopped looking at him, wondering what it is exactly she sees.

A shiver lances up her spine, an expected aftershock to healing Marcus. She wraps her arms around herself in an attempt to still the movement.

“It costs you something,” he says, breaking the silence between them.

She furrows her brows at him, turning the statement over in her mind.

“It costs you something to heal people,” he clarifies, frowning as another shiver runs through her.

She nods as she pulls her sleeves down from where they’d been bunched by her elbows.

“Everything has a price, Marcus.”

He nods at that, then looks at her, leaning forward from his place against the bed.

“My mother would’ve died that day - at the Unity bombing - if it hadn’t been for you,” he asks, a question that isn’t really a question.

She’s quiet for a long moment before she nods.

“There was a shard of glass halfway through her heart when I found her. I wasn’t sure - I’d never healed someone so far gone before.”

“It worked.”

“It worked,” she repeats, shame and guilt rising up like bile in the back of her throat. “But look at the cost.”

He doesn’t say anything for a long moment, though she can see him working through the problem in his mind. Finally, realization dawns on his face.

“The six other deaths.”

She breathes in deeply.

“The six other deaths,” she repeats and looks down at her hands. There isn’t blood on them now, but they feel stained and heavy all the same. “I needed more than my body could give, so I took from those six people. I took it all - everything they had to give - without a second thought.” She looks up at him. “Six lives for one,” she says softly, feeling strangled by the weight of the lives that she took.  

“Six lives for one,” he echoes, his own eyes turning inward at a memory, at a choice, at a belief that she now understands far too well. He looks at her without offering a forgiveness that could never be his to give and she finds herself grateful for it. Perhaps understanding is the most she’ll ever get for it.

Somehow, it almost feels like enough.

“Thank you, Abby,” he says finally, eyes soft, voice earnest.

Something about his expression makes her wants to blush or turn away or move closer. It’s a surprising feeling, all the more because it’s not an unwelcome one.

“You already thanked me.”

He shakes his head.

“I didn’t. I knew you helped her, but I didn’t - I couldn’t figure out how. Or what you’d really done. You’re amazing, Abby.” He stops, then swallows thickly. His next words are slurred together in their quickness. “What you do is amazing.”  

She nods, then looks up at him, hesitating.

“It is,” she says, “but it’s frightening, too. I’ve spent the last ten years terrified that you’d find out.”

He blinks rapidly at that, surprised and unsettled.

“So why tell me now?”

Because things are different now, she wants to say but doesn’t.  
Because _you’re_ different now, but knows that doesn’t quite hold every truth.

Because the thing is, she’s spent more time enumerating their differences than she can think to count. She knows he’s never woken up one morning and suddenly been able to move objects without touching them or conjure up fire out of thin air. She knows he hasn’t grown up afraid of what he is or what he can do.

But she also knows this: Marcus Kane understands the feeling of the ground shifting underneath you and having to work to find a steady foothold once more. He understands what it means to build yourself back up from who you thought you were. He understands what it is to make all the best choices you can but none of the right ones.

He understands how to be afraid of the person you’ve become.

And more than this, he’s accepted the way his world changed, the ways in which he needed to change to fit within it, then went about doing just that.

It isn’t bringing people back from the brink of death, but there’s still a sort of magic to it in its own way.

“Because I trust you,” she finally says, which is the beginning and the end of it all anyway.

* * *

He seeks her out later on his way to Earth Monitoring Station. His eyes are red from staring at an continuous loop of hopeless simulations, his mind busy with fruitless calculations.

He sees her from across the room, staring down at a patient on the far end of the medical bay. There’s a fierce, troubled look on her face, a furrow between her brows that he wants to smooth away with his thumb.

He pushes that thought away as he walks towards her, can’t help but smile when he catches her glance.

He suddenly feels like a little boy again, lost in endless stories of a forgotten world. There’s a flurry of excitement in veins that comes from knowing that fairy tales are everything but that.  

The earth is livable. Magic is real.

They’re two complimentary, extraordinary realities that are enough to keep the equally despairing reality of their situation at bay, for now.

She meets him in the middle of the room.

“Is it time?”

He nods.

“We have a few minutes.”

She strips off her gloves and sets them down at her desk, then turns and follows him out the door and into the hallway.

He waits until the medical bay is out of eavesdropping distance before he asks.

“It’s not just you, is it? You’re not the only witch on the Ark.”

She nods slowly, though she watches his face carefully as she does.

He feels a glow of triumph.

“I knew it.”

“You knew there were witches on the Ark?”

He huffs then shakes his head.

“Of course not. But I knew…I knew there was something. Even with all our technology, even with all the resources aboard the twelve different stations, we should’ve all run out of pretty much everything decades ago.”

She nods again, hesitant.

“I won’t ask you who else they are, even though I think I have a pretty good idea,” he reassures her, “I know it isn’t your secret to tell.”

She breathes out a sigh of relief.

“Thank you, Marcus.”

He nods, then glances down at her.

“What about the council?”

“What about them?”

“They’ve never known? Not even the Chancellor?”

She shakes her head.

“It’s safer that way. Not everyone is like me.”

_No one is like you._

The thought flashes through his mind, sudden and unwelcome and inconvenient. Only a lifetime of practiced stoicism keeps it from skittering across his features.

“What do you mean?” He asks, careful to keep his features bland and voice neutral.  

“Some of us - some of our magic is helpful. We can heal people and replicate machine parts and help plants remember how to grow. But some of us have abilities that are less helpful - moving things with our minds, calling up fire from the air - ”

“Walking through walls,” he interjects with a raise of his eyebrow. Abby doesn’t say anything, but he can detect a small upturn of her lips.

“Something like that. All magic has the potential to be dangerous, even mine.” She shakes her head. “Especially mine,” she adds quietly.  

He looks at her and tries to steer the conversation away from that desperate place.

“Have you ever told anyone else?”

She shakes her head.

“No one else who isn’t like me.”

“Are there rules against it?”

She smiles at that, the expression on her face almost teasing.

“Of course you’d ask,” she points out before shaking her head. “We don’t have rules,” she replies, and then does laugh when a bewildered expression lands on his face. “Nothing codified at least. But secrecy is a pretty easy way to stay hidden.”

“But why keep it hidden at all?” He asks, a question he hasn’t been able to stop turning over in his mind, “I’m assuming that all of you are a large part of the reason we’ve even lasted this long.”

She looks at him, an incredulous expression on her face.

“Do you really need to ask?”

He shrugs.

“It’s not a crime to exist.”  

She raises an eyebrow at that.

“Tell that to all the second children we’ve ever found.”

“But there’s never been any evidence that there’d be -.”

“A witch hunt, Marcus? We already have those on the Ark, and that’s without knowing that witches actually exist.”

He opens his mouth to say something, but realizes he has nothing to refute what she’s telling him. It isn’t How many people has the council sentenced to death for minor crimes? How many people has he sought out just on the slightest suspicion of misuse and rule breaking?

“And anyway, you’re wrong,” she says, glancing over at him.  

He narrows his eyes at her, disbelieving.

“You’re telling me we’ve had witch hunters before?”

She hesitates, then nods.

“Just the one.”

At his skeptical look, she goes on.

“It’s a story that gets passed around among us - handed down from before,” she explains, waving her hands in a vague way that he supposes is meant to connote some far-off time in the Ark’s history. “There was a woman with magic like mine. There was an accident in farm station that hurt a man’s young son and his wife. He took her to this woman, who saved his son, but at the cost of his wife. He killed the healer, but not until he had tortured the names of all the other witches she knew out of her.“

He shrugs.

“It’s just a story.”

She shakes her head.

“I thought so too, once. But you can look it up in the archives. Nicholas Remy - he found and killed nearly a dozen people before he was caught.”

“If he knew about witches, how come none of the rest of the Ark ever found out?”

“The day he went to trial in front of the council, someone broke in and killed everyone in the room. They never found the killer, of course. The door was still locked from the inside when they found the bodies. Like someone had just walked through a wall and walked back out again.”

He’s quiet after that, turning the story over in his mind. Truthfully, it’s not really that outlandish. He’d been on the verge of discovering something as he began to dig further back into the Ark’s inventory and history. And while he’s seen the amazing things her powers can do, he also knows the consequences for when she pushes it too far.

What, he wonders, would he have done if he’d found out about Abby a month ago? What choices would he have made for the sake of the Ark’s safety, for the good of mankind?

The truth is too unpleasant to look at. It leaves a curdling queasiness in his stomach. He wonders how Abby can think to trust him, knowing all that he’s done, knowing all that he might’ve done, once upon a time.

He looks over at her, his mind going back to a truth that he still can’t quite fathom.

“Earlier - you said you trusted me.”

She nods.

“I do.”

She states it with a kind of easy finality, a confidence he can’t believe he deserves.

“Why?”

She turns and gives him a long, inscrutable look.

“Because you told me that I didn’t need to be afraid of you,” she says softly, echoing his own frantic words back to him. “And you’ve never lied to me - even when I wanted you to.“

* * *

_Look inside. Find your peace._

Thelonious’ words echo in her brain, a jagged impossibility that makes her throat close up and her eyes prickle with unshed tears. Her peace is miles away on a ground she’ll never be able to feel beneath her feet, a daughter who she’ll never be able to beg forgiveness from.

She turns into the medical bay and looks at Jackson.

“How long?” He asks, twisting his surgeon’s gloves in his hands.

“51 hours.”

He sucks in a breath at that, lets it out slowly.

“What do you need from me?”

The question warms her heart even as it nearly breaks it.

She shakes her head at him and tries to aim a warm smile his direction.

“I need you to go, Jackson. Leave and be with your family.”

He doesn’t move.

“You’re my family too, Abby.”

The smile she gives him this time is genuine.

“I’ll be fine, Jackson. I promise. I can take of everything here.”

He hesitates for a moment longer before taking off his medical scrubs, folding them carefully and setting them down on the inventory counter. As though he means to pick them back up tomorrow for another day at work. As though their world isn’t ending.

Before he goes, he turns to her and wraps his arms around her shoulders.

“Thank you for everything, Abby.”

She returns his embrace, brushes her hand down the hair at the back of his head and gives him a final squeeze before letting go.

“Thank you, Jackson.” She pushes him back gently. “Now get out of here.”

He gives her one last look before and a small wave before heading into the hallway, the door swinging slowly shut behind him.

She turns and walks to the bed at the far end of the room, where her last patient is taking slow, laborious breaths.

The girl has been blown apart in a way that would be impossible for any normal surgeon, even with their now unrationed supplies. It might even be impossible with the strength of her magic, even though she’s stronger now than she’s ever been.

Still, she looks down at the young girl’s blond hair, tightly curled and half covering her face, and knows that she can’t just let her go.

She takes their last vials of epinephrine and sets them down next to her before she cuts the girl back open and begins the slow, painstaking work of putting someone’s entire digestive system back together again. The whole thing would be easier if was Jackson here beside her, but she can’t do what she’s planning and risk hurting him.

She feels wild and overwrought even as her hands calmly perform the steady work that’s required of her. What she’s doing is reckless, more than a shade of the line of futile, but she just can’t find it in herself to give up on the girl on the table below her. It feels too much like too much of an admission.  

She injects their last bit of epinephrine and peels off her gloves as the girl’s sluggish heart jumpstarts with adrenaline. With her hands on either side of the opened chest beneath her, she directs all her focus on repairing the intestines first, the pathways familiar even if the damage is more severe. Still, the girl’s heart slows down again, and she has to divert her magic to restarting it once again, splitting her attention between the careful repair of a leaking stomach and the steady beating drum of her heart. She can feel her legs go weak and tremble beneath her, can see her fingers go blue and shrivel, but still she presses on.

Her vision goes fuzzy at the edges, then become dim; finally, a darkness creeps out along the corners of her eyes and she has to close them in an attempt to keep herself from getting distracted. She doesn’t need sight anyway, simply feels along the edges of the organs beneath her purely with magic.

Some distant, faraway part of her is screaming at her to stop, urging her to pull her hands away from the body beneath her. She doesn’t though; her hands move on their own as if detached from her will, her magic taking hold of her in a way that she’s never felt before. There’s an odd pull within her - a desire to both lean into her magic and rend herself away from it.

She hears a noise from the far end of the room and ignores it, an easy task since her ears have a rushing sound running through them that makes everything seem far away and muffled. A wave of nausea passes over her; she brushes it aside, works on piecing together a lacerated lung instead.

She feels a cool brush of air against her, an unpleasant sensation that exacerbates the shaking in her hands. She hunches down lower over the girl in attempt to stay warm, can feel that the girl’s heart slow down again despite all that she’s doing.  

Suddenly, cold hands clamps down around both her wrists, wrenches her away from the table. She gasps, the movement painful, and forces her eyes open. Her vision has narrowed almost to complete darkness, but she can see the outline of Marcus, his eyes wide with terror and panic. She jerks back and collapses against him, her legs giving out completely.

They crumple to the floor in a heap, his hands still wrapped around her wrists, his knees bracketed on either side of her. She reaches out with the last bit of her magic and feels the girl’s heart wind down and go still, the life leaving her body completely in the next moment.

Her eyes burn even as the rest of her is almost too cold to bear, teeth chattering painfully in her jaw as she angles her head back and looks at Marcus.

“What are you doing here?”

He looks down at her, incredulous and angry and afraid. His skin is as pale as she’s ever see it, his eyes sunken down in their sockets.

“What the hell were you thinking?” He asks in reply, the harsh words at odds with the soft caress of his voice.

She reaches up with trembling fingers and brushes her fingertips against his hollowed out cheeks. He flinches and reaches up to grab her shaking hand, wraps it in his own and brings it back down to her chest.

“You weren’t supposed to be here,” she stutters out, leaning back against the warmth of his chest, “I didn’t want anyone to get hurt.”

“You’re hurt,” he grits out, arms tightening around her as she begins to shake almost to the point of convulsions.

She tries to speak but finds that she can’t; her words are trapped in her throat, her lungs feel too big for her chest.

“Abby,” Marcus whispers tightly, his mouth by her ear, “you need to heal yourself.” He slides his hands down to hers and holds her hands in his.

She manages to shake her head through the shivers. Her magic feels untameable and strange to her; she’s afraid of taking more than he can give.

“Abby,” he says again, louder this time. She looks up to see terror lining his pupils. “Please. I promise I’ll tell you if it’s too much.”  

She nods but struggles to lean forward. Wants to be able to wrench herself away from him in case it becomes too much.

Slowly, carefully, she reaches out with her magic, tapping into Marcus with the barest of touches.

Warmth floods her fingers and rushes up her arms, loosens the tightness in her chest. She takes a steadying breath in and blinks as the darkness marches back to the edges of her vision.

Marcus takes a shaky breath behind her as he gasps out her name.  She rips her hands away from his, launching herself forward onto her knees and hunching over to keep from touching him.

She stays that way for a long, tense moment, breathing shakily into her cupped, cold hands and holding herself stiffly against the roll of tremors assaulting her body.

Then, she feels Marcus’ hand on her back, rubbing gentle circles through her shirt.

“Abby?” He murmurs, uncertain and kind. “I’m alright. It’s ok.”

She nods but doesn’t move back towards him, digs her knees into the cold floor to ground herself.

He shifts behind her, the sound of something soft slipping down to the floor. His hand slides down to her bicep and he pulls gently at her, tugging her back into the space between his knees, her back against his chest. He reaches out and sweeps a blanket over her, tucking it around her shoulders then wrapping his arms around her.

She takes a deep, shuddering breath and closes her eyes. There’s a tightness in her throat and heaviness behind her eyes that makes her grateful that Marcus can’t see her face.

“I thought I could save her,” she whispers, barely able to force the words through her chattering teeth, “but I failed. I failed her.”

“You did the best you could,” he rumbles low in her ear, “you always do.”

She shakes her head, vision blurring with unshed tears.

“She’s gonna hate me forever.” Her voice cracks. Marcus smooths back her hair. It almost undoes her completely. “She blames me for her father’s death. I’ll never get to make that right now.  Never get to hug her.” A sob breaks free from her chest, but she forces her next words out willfully. “I can’t - I can’t protect her anymore.”

Marcus makes a soothing noise in the back of his throat, his chest rumbling beneath her. He trails his hands up and down her arms in a way that makes her wish a blanket wasn’t separating them.

“Clarke doesn’t hate you, Abby. She’s just - she’s just strong-willed like her mom.” She lets out a strangled sound that’s half sob, half laugh. “You gave her that. That’s how you’re protecting her, and that’s what will keep her alive on the ground.”

She nods at that, then leans backs and tilts her head to rest against his shoulder. It’s a good thought, perhaps even a true one. But the next, competing truth is this: she and Clarke will never see each other again, doomed to be forever separated by thousands of miles and unforgiven hatred.

She feels the first few teardrops track their way down her cheek. Marcus reaches up and brushes them away with the back of his hand, the movement so tender that it only serves to unleash the sob that’s been building in her chest. She tries to curl away from him, embarrassed and ashamed, but he simply reaches forward and bundles her up in his arms. She cries into his chest, scraped open and raw, for what feels like hours.

Eventually, her sobs quiet, the tears drying out to sniffles and occasional hiccups. She breathes in deeply, relishing the feeling of being held, of feeling safe and cared for. She opens her eyes and realizes that in the course of her breakdown she’s ended up curled in his lap, her legs laid out across his, her arms around his shoulders.

“We need to get you off this cold floor,” he says softly when he catches her looking up at him. A tender look crosses his features, but he turns away from her before she can hold it in front of her to study. His face is still wan but his eyes are bright, his breathing steady and sure.

She nods and lets her head come down to rest on his shoulder. He dips his arm underneath her curled up legs and lifts her from the ground in one swift movement. He stumbles once as he carries her to the opposite end of the room, but deposits her gently on the couch.

He stands to the side of it, looks uncertain and almost boyish in the half-light. She reaches over and grabs his hand, tugging him towards her.

“Lay with me?” She asks quietly, trying not to think too deeply about how much she wants him near her.

He stares down at her intently, a look that might be yearning flickering across his eyes. He doesn’t say anything, just nods and lowers himself onto the couch, spreading out against the back cushion. She waits until he’s settled, then crawls into the open space in front of him and lays her head on his outstretched arm.  

She reaches her hand up across her torso and finds where his is resting lightly on her waist, twines their fingers together and wraps their intertwined arms around her.

“I’m glad you’re here, Marcus,” she murmurs sleepily. It’s the exhaustion that pushes her to say it out loud, but it’s a truth that exists outside of it, too.

She feels him nod against the crown of her head.

“Me too.”

Sleep is crawling up her spine and weighing down her eyelids. Before she lets it steal her away completely, she looks up at him, her cheek brushing up against his jawline.

“Why’d you come find me?”

He doesn’t say anything for a long, drawn-out moment. Then, he sighs against her and buries his face in her hair.

“Because that’s what I do.”


	4. Heat and illusion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It just feels like a lifetime ago, now. The bitter, caustic feelings consigned to a different reality, that version of her occupying some distant plane of space. Perhaps there is another universe in which Marcus Kane never repents, in which she never makes the choice to sacrifice six lives for one; perhaps there is another version of her that never reveals she’s a witch, that never realizes she can.
> 
> All she knows is that in this life, in this version of the universe, Marcus Kane is a man who she trusts to know her secrets; a man who looks for her, looks at her, without flinching, without questioning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now five parts, because I'm impossible.

He wakes up with Abby laying across his chest, her thick brown hair spread around his neck and face.

It’s as disorienting as it is exhilarating. The languid feel of her weighing down his body is a sensation he’s dreamed about, snippets of desire he’s hoarded for longer than he wants to admit.

He cranes his neck to the clock at the far corner of the room and sees that they’ve been asleep for nearly two hours. He exhales heavily. He hadn’t meant to be away for so long, had wanted to run through every possible scenario over and over again until a solution presented itself.

But Abby has always had a way of disrupting his carefully laid out plans for himself.  

He knows he should get up, make his way back to Earth Monitoring and continue looking for a solution. But a stronger, softer part of him implores him not to shift away from these few stolen moments of realized daydreams. So instead he brushes her hair away from his face, smooths his hand down the length of her strands and tangles his fingers through the trailing ends.

Jaha’s words hover at the edges of his consciousness.

_Find your peace._

Here, with Abby in his arms, the sensation of her his entire world right now, he thinks he has.

For the first time in years, he lets his mind drift, thinks about nothing but the feel of Abby’s hair tickling his neck, the scent of her in his nose, the weight of her body across his chest. He lifts his hand from her hair and idly traces nonsense patterns across span of her back, alternates that motion with running his hands gently up her spine.

She shifts closer to him and sighs.

“That feels nice.”

He stills his hand.

An impatient sound rises up from her.

He smiles at that, then moves his hand to continue his ministrations on her back. For a moment, he can pretend that they’re occupying space in some alternate universe, a place without a 48 hour time limit, a world in which he can have this moment with Abby Griffin and not feel undeserving.

She sighs again, the sound contented in a way that makes his heart ache.

“How are you feeling?” He asks, mostly to distract himself from the press of her against his body.

She burrows herself into the slope of his neck.

“Warm.” She moves her head to look up at him. “Thank you, Marcus.”

He looks down at her and wonders if he should just let the question be. Finds that he can’t - the memory of her frail and shriveled form flung across the operating table too frightening to bear silently.

“Why’d you do it, Abby? Were you trying -”

She shakes her head firmly.

“No. I really was just trying to save her. I didn’t know what would happen - I didn’t know that would happen.”

He taps his fingers up the line of her spine thoughtfully.

“What did happen?”

She breathes in deeply.

“I don’t know exactly. I knew I needed to stop, wanted to stop, but it’s like…like my magic took over.”

She shivers against him and he tightens his arms around her.

“It was…is terrifying. I’ve never felt that way before. I’ve never been scared of my magic.”

“Lucky I found you when I did,” he murmurs as brushes his hand down her back.

“For the second time in as many days,” she replies, then looks up at him, studying his face.

He glances down at her and buries the dozen responses that crop up in his mind. He moves the wild tangle of her hair away from his face. Has to ignore a sudden, irrational wish to drop a kiss across her hairline.

“How did you sleep?” He asks instead, a roughness to his voice that he doesn’t intend.

“I had a dream about the ground,” she comments quietly, then falls silent.

“I used to dream about the ground almost every night when I was a child,” he says when she doesn’t go on. “I once memorized a book on North American flowers - the shape, the color, the growing season. In my dreams, I could recognize each one by their smell.”

He feels her smile against his chest at that, the melancholy that had drifted over her lifting for the moment.

“I did the same thing, but with trees. I used to have a book where the little girl would walk through a pine forest. I always tried to imagine what that would smell like.”

“Is that what you’ll miss about the ground?”

“You can’t really miss something you’ve never had.”

He nods against her, even as some part of him disagrees. He can’t help but think he’d always miss Abby, even if they’d never had this moment. It’s startling thought that renders him off balance in its sentiment. He has to grit his teeth and push it away to keep from letting it settle into his veins.

“Do you still dream about the ground?” She asks, looking up at him with wide brown eyes.

He trains his eyes away from her, suddenly doesn’t trust himself not to drop his gaze to her mouth.

“No.”

She settles back into the crook of his neck.

“What do you dream about now?”

_You. Being here. Moments like this._

“I don’t usually remember my dreams now,” he says instead, the lie a desperate, flailing stab at self-preservation. It’s almost unnerving about how much she’s come to mean to him, how much he’s let her mean to him in such a short amount of time.

For a man who’s spent decades priding himself on his ability not let emotion cloud his judgment, he’s spent an alarming amount of time in the last two weeks doing exactly that.

“How long were we asleep?” She asks, her voice breaking through his thoughts.

“About two hours.”

She takes a deep breath in and lets it out slowly.

“48 hours, then.”

“48 hours,” he echoes. It’s stark reality that he’s been trying to avoid, if only because it’ll push him to move from this couch, away from Abby and back to Earth Monitoring to run more frustrating simulations. He gives himself five more minutes and searches through his mind for a distraction instead.

“If you could have anything in the next 48 hours, no matter how impossible, what would it be?”

“Other than the obvious?” She asks, a Clarke shaped absence already clear in her thoughts.   

He nods.

“Other than the obvious.”

She sinks further into his shoulder and breathes out heavily. Then, she moves her hand until it rests on his chest, each finger tapping against him as she speaks.

“A dinner with all the foods we’d ever seen in those old earth vids - especially blueberry pie. A swim in the ocean afterwards and a bonfire at night. Walking through a forest and smelling pine needles. Seeing what the stars look like from the ground.”

“Anything else? You still have your thumb left.”

She shrugs, though he swears he can feel a telltale flush through the cloth of his shirt.

In the next moment, she shifts against him, moving her body until she’s half draped over him, her hands folded neatly on his chest, her chin resting on top of them. She meets his gaze, her brown eyes dark and unreadable.

“And what does a man like Marcus Kane do with his final forty-eight hours?”

* * *

He doesn’t answer right away.

She thinks she might’ve known his answer to the question, once, when he was just cold man intent on survival at all costs. A hollowed out shape of a person, fitted together by work and passionless ideals rather than human wants and a beating heart.   

He isn’t that man any more, though. Or rather - he isn’t _just_ that man. There’s still the cold glint of hardened practicality to him that she knows, but it’s softened at the edges now, tied up in layers repentance and a quest for salvation.

Marcus Kane is still the man who sentenced Jake to die and Clarke to the ground.

But he is also a man who willingly shouldered the burden of 320 deaths, who offered himself to her - however unwittingly - just so she could breath again, who crawled through burning steel and broken rubble to find her.

In the glittering quiet, she finds herself studying the sharp angles of his face. She wonders now how she could’ve spent ten years staring at him across a table and still feel like this is the first time she’s ever really seen him. Without quite meaning to, without thinking, she reaches out to brush her hand across his cheek, trailing her fingertips across the slope of his jaw. She hears his breath catch as he leans into her touch; her gaze drops to his mouth and suddenly, wildly, she thinks _what if._

She shivers at the thought, even as the air between them changes, becomes charged with a vibrating, heated tension.

He runs his hands up the column of her spine and back down again, resting them at the small of her back. It’s a movement that spreads warmth through her veins, though not for the reasons she’s sure he intends.

“48 hours, Marcus,” she repeats, her words meant to remind him of the question between them, somehow only reminding herself of the reality of their situation.

Once again her eyes fall to his mouth, a movement she knows he sees by the way he draws in a sharp breath. She flicks her eyes up his, catches him as he tears her gaze away from her mouth. She licks her lips, an involuntary movement to quell the sudden spike of desire in her chest, and sees a the same desire reflected back at her in his dark eyes.

“I’d want - ,” he starts, his voice lower, more gravelly than she’s ever heard it. He breathes out shakily and brings his hand up to her face, brushing back a fallen strand and tucking behind her ear. It’s tender in a way she hasn’t felt in so long, delicate in a way that’s at odds with the heat in his gaze.

It sets off a spark low in the pit of her stomach, a thrumming press of want spreading out from it and rushing through her veins.

She closes her eyes and thinks about that want.

She forgets about the ground, the hatred between her and Clarke, the past between her and Marcus.

She forgets about 48 hour time limits and all their impossible wants.

There is only this moment and this man who will always find her, this man who has never lied to her, this man she has trusted with every hidden part of herself.

There is only this moment and her in it, a woman who doesn’t have to be afraid any more, a woman who doesn’t have to be so alone.

There is only this moment and in this moment, he is the man she wants.

“You’d want what, Marcus?” She asks softly, opening her eyes and looking up at him. She slides herself across the hard planes of his body until she’s fully draped over him, draws herself up to look him in the eye.

He’s breathing heavily, one hand gripping tightly at her waist, the other still cupped around her cheek. He trails his fingertips down the slope of her jaw, traces her lower lip with pad of his thumb before threading his hand through hair at the back of her neck.

He looks at her, long and agonizing, then tilts his head up as he gently presses against the back of hers. She closes her eyes right before she feels the press of his lips on hers, soft and pliant. It’s sweet and gentle and warm.

It’s also not enough.

He draws his head back before she can deepen the kiss, stares up at her with a questioning look in his eyes. He’s unsure in a way she doesn’t recognize. She presses down against him and tangles her fingers in his hair before bringing her lips down against his.

His mouth opens underneath hers immediately, his tongue welcoming and insistent. She moves up his lap, straddling her legs on either side of him and tilts her head to find a better angle. She smiles against him when she hears him bite back a moan, then moans aloud herself when he bites down on her lower lip. His hand finds it way under her shirt, his rough fingers skating across her hips and up her back. His tongue is teasing, almost playful, surprising her even as her body calls out for more. She tugs roughly at his hair and a sound that might be growl sounds from the back of his throat as he licks his way into her mouth, his movements demanding and heated.

She flattens out against him, her hips lined up with his, the hard line of him pressed up against the juncture of her thighs. He digs his fingers into her waist and rolls his hips beneath her, tilts his head up to trace the pulsepoint at her throat with his tongue as she throws her head back and moans.

She pushes him back down when she feels him smile against her, brings her mouth down onto his and grinds her hips against him, swallowing his groan as her tongue teases and probes his mouth.

“Abby, the Chancellor - .”

She jerks up at the sound of Sinclair’s voice and sees him standing in the doorway of medical, mouth hanging open in way that might be comical if she and Marcus weren’t in such a compromising position. For a long moment, none of them move.

Sinclair recovers first, clearing his throat and focusing his attention to a spot just to the left of both of them. He can’t stop the grin that plays across his mouth, but manages to sound completely nonplussed as he speaks.

“The Chancellor thinks he’s figured out a way to get us to the ground. I think it actually might work, too. He wanted to see you, Kane. You too, Abby.”

Marcus nods, eyes still dark and glazed over.

“Why don’t you two go ahead,” he manages to get out, and she has to admit she’s impressed by how steady his voice is, “I’ll catch up in a minute.”

She’s impressed by a variety of other things, too, but forces herself to push that thought away.

Sinclair nods and turns back the way he came, the door swinging shut behind him.

Marcus moves his hands out from under her shirt and tugs the hem down until it meets the waistband of her jeans.

She looks down at him, his eyes the same color of frustration and desire she can feel within her.

“I can wait for you, Marcus.”

He shakes his head.

“It’ll take me a bit. Besides, if you stay here, there’s a chance that neither of us will go anywhere for a couple of hours.”

Her breath catches at that. There’s a dark burn of desire in his eyes that makes her heart thud wildly even as he gently pushes her away.

“Go. Jaha’s found a way for us to get to ground. I know you want to hear about it.”

His words snap her out of her desire filled haze and back to the present.

_A way to the ground._

The words are a spell she can’t believe exists, a bit of magic more extraordinary than any she’s ever seen.

She thinks of Clarke and forgiveness and second chances. She thinks of the miracle of the ground below her and the man before her.

She smiles and, on impulse, leans over to kiss his gently on the lips; somehow, the gesture feels just as intimate as what Sinclair just walked in on.

“I’ll see you in a bit,” she says, brushing her hand across his cheek as she goes.  

Sinclair is waiting out in the hallway, his eyes dancing with amusement.

“Were you waiting on me?” She asks, incredulous.

He grins at her.

“Wanted to make sure you two actually made it out of there.”  

She almost rolls her eyes at that, but settles on bumping him with her shoulder instead.

“We aren’t teenagers,” she hisses, though a flush rises to her cheeks as she does.

“No,” he shoots back with a look that’s gleeful to the point of giddiness, “you’re just two grown adults making out on a couch in a public area.”

“You’re one to talk, Jac,” she mutters, the childhood nickname slipping out.

He actually does roll his eyes at that.

“Ok, _Abs_ ,” he drawls out, his own nickname for her bringing a smile to her face, “if you’re referring to the incident in the dining hall, then I’d like to point out that I actually was a teenager and the woman I got caught with is now my wife.”

She huffs at that, though she can’t help the smile as she does.

Silence settles between the two of them, the still, comforting kind between two old friends.

“So…” Sinclair starts, dragging the word out, “what was that exactly?”

She raises her eyebrow at him and tries to shoot him a cool look that he only returns with a raised eyebrow of his own and a smirk. She breaks the stare and focuses on fixing her rumpled clothes.

“It was…” She trails off, unsure of what to say. “It was what it was.”

“Uh huh,” he teases, “it certainly was.”

“Shut up, Jac,” she says, reaching over and pinching him on the shoulder.

He looks back at her, affronted, and tugs on the end of her hair the way he used to as a child. She laughs at that, her heart light, her mind filled with all the things she’ll get to say to Clarke now.

He grins at her but doesn’t say anything. After a moment, he glances over at her, a thoughtful look on his face.

“Not that I’m not happy for you, I just didn’t think you even liked Marcus.”

She turns the statement over in her mind. She knows that it was true, knows that not even two weeks ago she would’ve agreed wholeheartedly.

It just feels like a lifetime ago, now. The bitter, caustic feelings consigned to a different reality, that version of her occupying some distant plane of space. Perhaps there is another universe in which Marcus Kane never repents, in which she never makes the choice to sacrifice six lives for one; perhaps there is another version of her that never reveals she’s a witch, that never realizes she can.

All she knows is that in this life, in this version of the universe, Marcus Kane is a man who she trusts to know her secrets; a man who looks for her, looks at her, without flinching, without questioning.

She looks up and sees that they’ve stopped in the middle of the hallway, Sinclair studying her with an expectant look on his face.  

“He’s a good man,” she finally says, her voice steady and soft. “Whatever he’s done.”

He stares at her for a long moment, then nods.

“I know that, Abby. I just didn’t think you did, too.”

He smiles, a small, bright turn of his lips that she returns before continuing their walk down the empty hall.

Before they turn into the hallway that leads to Earth Monitoring, she stops him.

“I need you to know about Marcus.”

He looks at her, bewildered and amused.

“Uh, I think I already have a pretty good idea.”

She shakes her head and rocks back onto her heels. She looks down the deserted hall and steps in closer to him.

“No, I mean - .” She clears her throat and pitches her voice lower. “He knows.”

“Knows what?”

He looks so genuinely confused that she forgives what she thinks is obvious. Or, perhaps it isn’t. She doesn’t think she’s ever heard of someone telling a non-witch about magic.

“He knows about me.”

His eyes widen slightly, a rare expression of surprise on his usually unflappable face.

“Ah.” The word a surprised puff of air. “Interesting.”

“Just me though,” she says quickly, “he didn’t ask about anyone else.”

He nods.

“Of course he didn’t.”

“He did ask about the rules, though.”

Sinclair smirks at that.

“Of _course_ he did.”

She waits for him to say something else - a blistering reprimand or, at the very least, a sarcastic comment.

He does neither, just nods at her again and continues walking down the hallway.

She looks at the space where he just was and then rushes to catch up to him.

“That’s it? No commentary?”

He shakes his head at her.

“You’re not stupid, Abby. If you trust him, then so do I. Besides, I’ve always liked Marcus.” He looks at her, then tilts his head. “The only thing I’m curious about is why you told him.”

She shrugs. The truth seems too personal to share, even with someone who’s known her since before she could walk.  

“It’s a long story.”

“Uh huh,” he says, unconvinced. “It’s ok - you can tell me more about it when we’re on the ground.”

* * *

“Mom? Is everything ok?”

He slows his pace when he sees her, resting his hand gently on her shoulder as he moves closer and follows her line of sight. She’s staring down a deserted hallway, electrical wire and fallen beams crisscrossing the way, the end of it blocked by a sunken ceiling.

“The Eden Tree is down that way,” she says, sad and low. “I keep thinking about how right it would be to plant it once we get to the ground.”

He nods, then squeezes her shoulder.

“I’m sorry, mom. But it would take hours to get through all the debris, and even then we couldn’t even be sure Section 17 would be safe enough to search for it.”

She nods and slowly tears her eyes away from the blocked off hallway.

“I understand, Marcus,” she murmurs. She studies his face, her eyes moving over the harsh shadows underneath his eyes, the sharp scrape of stubble on his cheeks. She frowns and briefly rests her hand on his rough cheek. “You need to rest.”

He shakes his head but smiles at her.

“We’ll have plenty of time to rest once we’re on the ground.”

“Marcus!”

He looks up and sees Abby striding down the hall towards them. His heart quickens, his mind suddenly unable to think of anything except the way her hair felt tangled in his finger. He sees his mother turn sharply towards him, her eyes narrowing with interest. He quickly tries to smooth out his features into blandness, but his mother simply tilts her head towards him, an expression that might be surprise crossing her features.

He turns towards Abby and takes a deep breath in, berating his treacherous heart. Her hair is plaited in a loose braid, a loose tendril framing her face that he wants to brush back behind her ear. He clenches his fingers into a fist instead.

“Abby,” he says, an evenness to his tone that’s at odds with the wild thump of his heart.

“Marcus.” Her voice is cool, but she’s looking at him with a warmth that he doesn’t think is imagined. His fingers unclasp, hand twitching with a desire to reach out and run his fingertips down her braid. Something in his expression must give him away because she smiles, tender and bright, the gesture loosening something in his chest. He hasn’t seen her for half a day, ever since Jaha sent them running in opposite directions, planning their mad dash to the ground. Enough time for him to wonder if she’d considered what happened between them a mistake or a regret.

“Hello Abby,” his mother says, jarring him out of his thoughts. There’s an undercurrent of what he swears is amusement to her words, but when he turns to look at her there’s only the same, familiar placid look on her face. He glances back at Abby, her cheeks now faintly red, her gaze turned away determinedly from his mom.

She nods tightly in his mother’s direction, then clears her throat and turns her attention to him.

“Sinclair needs to see you. He think’s he’s found the viable 5% and wants to run a couple of things past you.”

“Alright, thanks.” He hesitates, then clears his throat. “Where are you headed to?” He asks, hoping that they can have a few moments alone together.

“I’m meeting Jackson in medical.” She answers, a gleam in her eyes that tells him she knows what he was hoping. Unfortunate, though, since medical is the opposite direction to where he’ll need to go. “We have to go through the inventory and pack up whatever we can for the trip down.”

He nods at her and turns to Vera.

“I’m sorry again about the Eden Tree, mom.”

She waves it off, though there’s a look of sorrow in her eyes that makes him almost reconsider.

“What about the Eden Tree?” Abby asks, looking from him to his mother.

“Mom thought it’d be nice to plant it on the ground, but I can’t take the risk or spare the manpower to send someone looking through section 17.”

Abby looks at him, a thoughtful expression on her face.

“There might be a way.”

He raises an eyebrow at her.

“It’s probably next to impossible to get through all that. And unsafe.”

Abby huffs and shakes her head.

“That’ll probably make it more appealing.” She looks wryly at him, then at Vera. “I’ll let you know if what I’m thinking works out.”

“Thank you, Abby,” his mother says, smiling warmly at her. She reaches out and grasps Abby’s hand and squeezes it once before letting her go. Abby simply nods, another bewildering flush rising in her cheeks, before she turns and heads down the hall away from them.

He watches her retreating figure with a distinct feeling of longing in his chest. It’s a new feeling - not, he recognizes, in its existence, but in his acknowledgement of it. The feel of her in his arms has done nothing to assuage the want that’s lingered beneath his skin for longer than he cares to admit; instead, it’s simply heightened it, as if knowing that it’s possible makes it the only thing he can think to want.

“That’s new,” his mother says as she steps up next to him.

He smiles ruefully. Briefly he considers being deliberately obtuse, but realizes what a lost cause it’d be. He’s always had trouble putting anything past her.

“It’s…” He begins, that trails off, not exactly sure what it all even is.

“It’s what it is,” he finishes up lamely, glancing down and seeing his mother’s elated expression.

“What changed?” She asks, a curious sort of eagerness to her voice.

He runs his fingers through his hair. Thinks about the tremor of guilt in Abby’s voice as she spoke about what it cost to save his mother, the openness in her stare as she admitted being a witch.

“We found a way to understand one another,” he says at length, his voice soft in remembering.

His mother gives him a long, searching look, then places a hand on his cheek, her eyes drifting to some point past him. A strange sensation fills him, a sudden sharpness to his emotions that he can’t explain.

Vera’s eyes go wide, shock and wonderment and guilt lining her creases of her face.

“She told you,” she whispers, awed and disbelieving, “about what she is - about what we are.”

“We -?” He closes his eyes and shakes his head, running his hand over the grit of stubble along his jaw as he opens his eyes to look at her. “You’re - .” He lets out a bewildered chuckle. “Of course you are. That actually makes a lot of sense.”  

He takes a step back and leans against wall, rests his head against the cool metal siding.

“I’m sorry, Marcus,” she says, moving to stand in front of him, “it’s - it’s a terrible secret to have to keep.”

“You were right to keep it,” he assures her, though there’s a heaviness in his chest as he says it. He means it; he thinks the truth of the statement might be what hurts.

She grips his hands in hers; slowly, he feels a sensation of fear and loneliness and regret pouring out from her. It’s a thing separate from his own feelings, an awareness that settles on top of his emotions without mixing. It’s near enough for him to feel and understand, but still a thing apart that he doesn’t have to bear. It’s an apology and a confession in one.

He stares at her, dumbfounded.

“That’s extraordinary.”

She smiles drops her hand. The sensation slowly recedes from his mind, then disappears completely.

“It’s a lonely thing, sometimes, being who we are,” she admits, melancholy and remote.

He reaches out for her and wraps her in a tight embrace.

“You don’t have to feel alone any more, mom.”

She smiles and tilts her head up at him.

“Neither do you.”


	5. Enchantment and consequence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Abby, you don’t need to do much convincing to get me to sleep with you.” He laughs as her eyes widen, though there’s an endearing blush rising in his cheeks that she wants to put her lips on. “I mean, sleep next to you. Truthfully, I’m so exhausted right now that I’ll probably fall asleep the minute we lay down.” He brushes the hair back from her face and dips his head down until his mouth is right by her ear, his words rumbling through her. “Although, you don’t need to do any convincing to get me to sleep with you, either.”
> 
> She lets out strangled noise - the sound half a laugh, half a breathy sigh. She doesn’t say anything, simply cranes her neck up and plants a kiss on the outside corner of his jawline, a soft patch of skin that causes him to shiver against her.

She finds Nygel in one of her usual haunts - some far flung corner of Agro Station. The woman is doing nothing but staring benignly at a stack of crates piled in the corner, citizens rushing around her. Somehow, she gives the appearance of skulking even as she stands still in the harsh overhead light.

Her eyes meet Abby, a look of contempt turning down her features before they shuffle back into polite amusement.

“I heard you were looking for me,” Nygel says, propping herself up onto a crate.

She nods.

“I need a favor from you.”

Nygel laughs, a bitter look slipping across her face as she does.

“That time in the service bay must’ve roasted your brains, Abby.”

Abby shakes her head.

“It’s not for me,” she explains, “it’s for Vera.”

Nygel sighs, loud and long suffering.

“You really know how to get at me.” She drums her fingers across the top of the crate. “What does she need?”

“The Eden Tree.”

Nygel raises a brow.

“What about it? A waste of water, if you ask me.”

“It’s stuck somewhere in the wreckage by section 17. Vera wants to take it down to plant on the ground. We don’t have the manpower to go searching through the wreckage, not to mention it’s too dangerous to march off into the unknown.”

Nygel levels an amused look at her.

“Ah, yes, the unknown of section 17.” She sighs heavily and gives an exaggerated shrug. “I’ll go get it - but only because I know Vera will casually drop it into every conversation for the next 20 years if I don’t.”

“And give you those big, sad eyes as she does it, too,” Abby adds, unable to keep a small smile from her face. Nygel grins at her, the gesture genuine in a way that makes Abby miss the friend she used to have. It’s gone in the next moment, a flat look of dislike replacing it instead.

She crosses her arms and tries to keep the exasperation from her sigh.

“Be careful, Nygel,” she says. “We don’t know what blew apart in the accident. You could walk through a wall and into a room that isn’t there any more and end up accidentally floating yourself.”

Animosity sweeps over Nygel’s features, a piercing look ringing her eyes.

“Without you there with me? What a waste that would be.”

She sighs at that but doesn’t say anything. It’s easy to accept Nygel’s hatred towards her when she knows that she deserves it. She’s about to turn and go when Nygel moves off of the crate she’s been using a makeshift chair and folds her arms across her chest. There’s a coiled energy to her that reminds Abby of old earth vids of predators at a watering hole. She narrows her eyes at Abby, a barbed smile cutting across her face.  

“So, tell me Abby - was it because you thought you had 48 hours to live, or have you just had a soft spot for Kane all along?”

Her heart stops, then speeds up painfully. Her mind races to think of a reply, to think of how Nygel could possibly know. She’s not ashamed of what happened between her and Marcus, but it’s not an exaggeration to think that Nygel is the last person who she wants to know about it.

“What do you mean?” She asks after a tense moment, proud of how cool and steady her voice is.

Nygel stares at her, somehow gives the impression of rolling her eyes even while everything about her remains unmoved.

“Please, Abby, I’m not stupid.”

Abby doesn’t say anything, just keeps looking ahead, eyebrow raised and heart pounding.

“I saw him after the service bay,” Nygel says after a long moment, and Abby feels the tension in her body dissipate. She takes in a deep breath as Nygel continues. “His arms and hands were burned as all hell from whatever idiocy he put himself through for you.”

“It wasn’t for me,” she interjects, needing to draw the distinction for some reason, “Marcus was out looking for any survivors.”

Nygel snorts, a look of intense derision crossing her face.

“Ah, he’s Marcus now, is he?” She shakes her head. “He should’ve had those burns for weeks - especially since I know medical is shot to hell. But not even a day later and our head councilor is all healed up, not a single scar on his admittedly very nice arms.” She lets out a noise of disgust. “First Vera, now Marcus. The Kanes are very lucky to have you,” Nygel sneers, her tone acid. “If only all of us were so lucky.” ”  

“He needed to know,” Abby points out, ignoring the accusation in Nygel’s word. “He was already so close to finding out on his own. Telling him meant I could do it on my terms.”

Nygel laughs at that, the sound ugly and raw.

“Everything’s always on your terms, isn’t it?” She shakes her head, the barely concealed dislike blossoming into profound loathing. “I know I’m not exactly a paragon of virtue, but even I follow a few rules. And unless being a complete asshole suddenly qualifies as magic, it makes absolutely no sense why you needed to reveal what you are.”

Abby sighs and shakes her head, shrugging her shoulders up as she thinks of a way to explain.

“He just - he needed to know. He deserved to know.” She looks at Nygel imploringly. “He’s a good man, Nygel.”  

A jagged, heavy silence hangs down between the two of them.

“And how many good men have you let die to keep your secret, Abby?”

Abby freezes, her eyes locked on Nygel’s blistering stare. She works her jaw but nothing comes out, the words stuck in her throat and coated with fermented guilt. A thousand sorries shimmer in the air between them, occupying the space where Nygel’s husband used to be. Truthfully, there is nothing she can say to repair what’s broke between the two of them. All she has are a handful of impossible choices and the lives they all have to lead after them.

“He won’t do anything,” she finally says, “if you’re worried about that at all.”

And what,” Nygel drawls out, pushing forcefully on the latter word, “do you possibly think he could do to me? What jail cell could he put me in that I wouldn’t just walk out of, Abby?”

She levels one last look of loathing at Abby before pushes off the wall and passes through her, a movement that leaves Abby shaken and slightly nauseated.

“By the way,” she says, looking at Abby closely, “what station are you and Kane going to be on?”

“Mecha station.”

Nygel nods.

“I’ll see you on Mecha, then.”

Abby crosses her arms in front of her and raises an eyebrow.

“Is that where you were assigned?”

Nygel gives a short, barking laugh.

“I honestly don’t have the slightest clue,” she replies drily. “But whatever station you and Kane are on seems like my best shot at making it down to Earth. After all, I know how good you both are at self preservation.”  

* * *

He looks down at the manifest in his hands, brow furrowing in frustration.

“If we could repair Agro, we could fit at least 200 people in there,” he mutters, rubbing a hand across his forehead.

“What would it take?” Sinclair asks, not looking up from the schematics in front of him.

Marcus sits down and scrubs a hand against the stubble on his jaw.

“More supplies than we have available, more time than we currently have.” He shakes his head and sighs heavily. “We’ll just have to find a way to fit more people into Mecha.”

Sinclair taps his fingers on the table.

“If we could somehow find the supplies, would it be possible to fix it?”

He shrugs.

“If you could find three coolant coils, two compressors and a power generation system in the next hour, maybe the next hour and a half, we’d have enough time to fix it.” He looks over at Sinclair. “Do you happen to have any of those just lying around?”

Sinclair stares fixedly at the plans in front of him, then looks up at Marcus and nods.

“C’mon,” he says, standing up and moving towards the exit, “let’s go.”

Marcus looks at him, bewildered.

“Wait - do you actually have those things just lying around?”

Sinclair shakes his head, then looks around Earth Monitoring before stepping in closer.

“I know that Abby told you.”

He tilts his head in confusion.

“Told me what?”

“ _Told you_ , Marcus.”

“About?”

“Oh, for fu - “ He shakes his head and gestures to the engineering lab with an impatient wave of his hand. “Follow me.”

He walks quickly out the door, not bothering to wait for Marcus.

When they both arrive at Engineering, Sinclair shuts the door to his office and opens a chest that’s filled with nothing but scrap metal parts - broken compressors and shattered rods and burnt out chunks of metal. He picks up a large scrap of metal at random and shows it to Marcus, lifting an eyebrow as he does.

Nothing happens at first; then, the metal begins to transform, shifting in his hand, metal molding into a large, curved shape, the sheen at one end morphing into thick glass.

A few minutes later, Sinclair is holding coolant coil, so shiny and pristine it looks like it just came out of the factory sector.

“I knew it,” Marcus says, his voice hushed with awe, reaching out to touch the coil. Sinclair offers it to him and Marcus turns it over in his hands.

“You knew I was a witch who could fabricate hard matter?” Sinclair asks with a raise of his eyebrow.

“Well, no, but - .” He gestures at coil in his hands before setting it down on the desk between them. “Your inventory reports don’t really make sense if you look at them long enough.”

“Only you would look at them long enough,” Sinclair points out.

He grins at that.

“Have to make myself useful somehow.” He shakes his head, staring ruefully at Sinclair. “You, Abby…my mother.” Sinclair’s eyes widen with his last admission, the expression quickly replaced by relief. “I’ve never felt so out of my depth before.”

Sinclair huffs as he picks up another twisted piece of metal.

“That’s not true, Marcus.” He smirks at him across his desk. “Obviously no one reads an inventory report quite like you do.”

Marcus laughs at that and nods. Silence falls between the two of them, Sinclair focusing on another ball of metal in his hands, Marcus staring at the stacks of shapeless metal around him.

After a moment, Sinclair sighs and sets down a ball of metal in front of him.

“Ok, you have five minutes and I’ll answer any questions you want. But after that, we have to get moving on this.”

“How did you…”

“C’mon. I remember you in Earth Skills. I know what you’re like when you’re interested in something.” A mischievous gleam lights in his eye. “You know, I’m surprised you’re not asking me about Abby right now. You do know that we grew up together, right?”

looks down at his hands, feels a blush creeping up his cheeks.

“I know about Abby,” he mutters, though he tucks away that tidbit of information from Sinclair for a later time.  

Sinclair snorts.

“Yeah, I bet.” He grins slyly at Marcus, then raises an eyebrow and taps the watch on his wrist.

Marcus crosses his arms in front of him, picking a question from his mind at random.

“So, has it been every Chief Engineering Officer?”

Sinclair looks up, thinking.

“The last two. I’m not sure before then.”

“And what about the rest of the Chief Officers? Are they - ?”

Sinclair huffs, then shakes his head.

“First, it’s not up to me to tell you. Second, I honestly don’t know. We all like to keep a pretty low profile.”

He nods, then uncrosses his arms and fiddles with the scrap of metal in front of him.

“And what about the previous doctors?”

“What about them?”

“Have they all been like Abby?”

Sinclair shakes his head.

“No one’s quite like Abby.”

Marcus smiles at that.

“I know.”

Sinclair makes a face.

“Don’t get sentimental on me, Marcus. I mean, there’s never been anyone quite as powerful as her.” He looks up, a thoughtful look crossing his face. “Your mother comes close, but that’s a different kind of magic.”

Marcus nods, still turning that truth over in his mind.

“So, do you know how many witches are on the Ark?” He asks, looking at Sinclair with disbelief. “What kinds of abilities people have?”

Sinclair shakes his head.

“We don’t exactly take census every year.” He takes in Marcus’ disappointed look and thinks for a moment. “Between Abby and Vera, though - they might have a pretty good idea.”

He furrows his brow.

“Why’s that?”

Sinclair shrugs.

“It’s the way magic manifests. A child comes in with a high fever - ridiculously, dangerously high - but no other symptoms. No cough, no cold, no flu-like symptoms,” he says, listing out each word on his fingers, “nothing but a fever that comes out of nowhere. If the child manages to beat off the fever - and we’ve had plenty that don’t - then they wake up in the next few days able to do things that can’t be explained.”

Marcus is quiet for a moment, his mind catching on one word in Sinclair’s explanation.

“You kept saying child. Is it only in children?”

Sinclair drums his fingers on the top of the desk.

“As far we know, everyone’s powers manifest by the time they’re 18, so Abby’s been able to track each new witch in the last 15 years or so that she’s been a doctor.” He shrugs at Marcus. “The rest your mother managed to figure out. It’s basically impossible to hide anything from an empath.”

“Believe me, I know,” he mutters, thinking back to his mother’s knowing looks and Abby’s flushed cheeks.

Sinclair smirks and picks up the discarded metal scrap in front of him.

“To be fair, you don’t need to be an empath to recognize that something’s going on between you and Abby.” He grins at the uncomfortable look that rolls over Marcus’ features, a teasing bent to his lips. “I honestly thought I was going to have to excuse myself earlier when Abby came in to Go-Sci to look at the manifest.” He laughs at the glare that Marcus levels in his direction, clapping his hand on the man’s shoulder. “I don’t know if you’re trying to keep it a secret, but if you are, you should stop looking at her like you want to kiss her every time she walks into a room.”

“I don’t - ,” he protests, then stops, not quite sure how to end the sentence and still tell the truth. “We’re not - ,” he starts again, then cuts off abruptly, rubbing a hand across his tired eyes. “I’m not exactly sure what she wants. She did think that we only had 48 hours to live.”

He regrets the words the minute they leave his mouth. Partly because they’re a fearful possibility he doesn’t want to speak into being, partly because of the embarrassment of acting like some sort of anxious teenager. He waves his hand in front of his face as though to push the words away from him. Sinclair doesn’t say anything for a moment, just sets down the piece of metal in his hands and looks thoughtfully over at Marcus.

“Well, you don’t need to figure it all out in the next 14 hours before we launch,” he says in a easy, pragmatic tone. “In fact, I know you can’t - I’ve seen the to-do list that the Chancellor gave to you.” He picks up the fabricated coil and puts it in Marcus’ hand. “And on that note, your 5 minutes is up. Go work on this and come back in thirty minutes. I should have just about everything ready.”  

He nods, his mind stuck between what he needs to do and what he wants to do. Before he leaves the room, he hears Sinclair call out his name. He turns and sees a reassuring look on the other man’s face.

“For what it’s worth, Marcus - I don’t think it was just because she thought you had 48 hours left to live.” He smiles, the look without any of his trademark wryness. “You know just as well as I do that Abby only does exactly what she wants to do, no matter what the circumstance.”

* * *

“We are, for once, ahead of schedule and replete with supplies for our final trip to the ground,” Thelonious announces to the room filled with chief officers and station representatives and high level citizens. “We have three hours until we launch, which means we’ll need everyone to be at their  assigned station ready for departure in two.”

He looks around the room, trying to meet the eyes of each person as he speaks.

“Even though we believe that we have pinpointed the areas least likely to break apart in our descent, the reality of the situation is such that it is likely that not all of us will make it to the ground.”

Abby shifts closer to Marcus at her side, their hands brushing up against one another. The idea that they might get this far and still might not make it, that she might burn up in the cold of space before ever wrapping her arms around Clarke one last time, is a reality that leaves her feeling bleak and shaky. She shivers and feels Marcus glancing towards her, a furrow of worry between his brows.

“As I said before,” Thelonious continues, “and even as we stand here on the precipice of a new chapter in our lives, I implore you to take the next two hours to find peace within yourselves and with others. Know that we have all done as much as we can and, in many ways, much more than was expected of us.”

He smiles, calm and reassuring even in the face of vast uncertainty. She can see its effect on the crowd gathered before him - an acceptance in their faces that she cannot mirror, no matter how much she wants to. Thelonious’ words don’t apply to her, can’t apply to her unless she can see her Clarke once more. Here, with the stark reality of their situation before her in a way that she hasn’t let herself think about in the past twelve hours, even with the press of bodies all around her, she feels lonely and lost and afraid.

The back of Marcus’ hand skims hers, his hand moving over hers until their palms press against one another. He twines his work-roughened fingers with hers, warming her cold hands with his own. She takes a deep breath and looks over at him, can’t help a small, grateful smile that tugs at the edges of her lips. He keeps his gaze ahead, face expressionless - but he slowly presses each of his fingertips into the spaces between her knuckles. It’s a small, easy movement that sends warmth up through her chest and pulls the loneliness away from her heart.

“And finally, remember this,” Thelonious booms out, his speech ending on a fervent note, “no matter what happens, no matter how many of us do or do not survive this final journey - our legacy will go on.”

Thelonious nods once more to the gathered people before him before stepping down from the elevated space in the front of the council’s meeting chamber. The throng of people begins to move out of the room, brushing past her and Marcus without a second look. Before the room empties completely, Marcus squeezes her hand and lets go. It seems like the right thing to do even as she misses the warmth of him.

Thelonious walks over to where the two of them are standing.

“I don’t know how you both managed to find the supplies. It is, frankly, nothing short of a miracle.” Thelonious says warmly, his eyes glancing between the two of them. He hesitates for a moment, then lays a hand on both of their shoulders. “I want to thank you both, again, for all that you’ve done to prepare us for this final trip and all that you’ve done for the people of The Ark.”

“This isn’t goodbye, sir,” Marcus says, his tone firm against the finality in the chancellor’s voice.

Thelonious smiles.

“Of course not, Marcus,” he says, then turns to Abby.

“I know you’ve done so much already, but I do need one last thing from you, Abby.” He reaches into his pocket and gestures for Abby to hold out her hand. She gives him a puzzled look but stretches out her open palm and feels him drop a small object onto it. She looks down and sees a councilor’s pin. “I need you back on the council.”

She turns the pin over in her hand.

“Why?”

“Because you deserve it,” he replies, though a rueful grin breaks through his features at her raised eyebrow. “I may also need you to look over and, hopefully, approve one last change to the Exodus Charter.”

Marcus shifts next to her and clears his throat; there’s an inscrutable look on his face when she turns towards him - something on the border of abashed or apprehensive.   
Thelonious walks towards the councilor’s table in the middle of the room and takes out a thick sheaf of paper from his jacket pocket. He folds the first few pages back and lays it out on the table.

“The charter states that at least two council members must approve an amendment, not including the individual who drafted it.” He slides the document over to Abby. “Since Marcus drafted it, that means someone other than myself needs to approve it.”

She looks over at Marcus, then back at Thelonious.

“You could’ve exerted executive power.”

Thelonious shrugs.

“I could’ve. I’m sure Marcus would’ve preferred it.” He shakes his head and lays down a pen next to the charter. “But we’re heading into a new age, Abby. It’s imperative that we set a new precedent. We have to more than who we were up here.”

He taps the document in front of her.

“It’s nothing radical - just Marcus being thorough, as usual.”

She looks down at the paper and reads the provision set out before her.

**Prohibition on the criminalization of status.**

_No criminal conviction shall be sustained without clear and convincing evidence of a willful and volitional act. The burden of proof remains with the Council to show that the defendant willfully and with volition committed a prohibited act._

She reads the language, one, twice, three times over to make sure that she understands it. She looks up at Marcus, his dark eyes staring intently at her, trying to gauge her reaction.

“This means - ,” she begins, her voice hushed, the words barely clinging to steadiness. She clears her throat and glances at Thelonious before turning her gaze back to Marcus. “This means that no one can be jailed just for being born.”

Marcus nods even as Thelonious clarifies the law.

“We didn’t write in a one child rule into the charter, but this just gives added protections to any second children we currently have or learn about in the future.” He looks over at Marcus and smiles. “It’s not completely necessary, but Marcus insisted we add it just to be thorough.”  

“Second children,” she echoes, almost dazed by the words in front of her. She smiles as she looks at Marcus. “Of course. This is - .” She laughs suddenly, unable to keep her joy at bay, even though she knows in Thelonious’ eyes it’s an incongruent reaction. “It’s just right. It’s perfect.”

She picks up the pen and signs her name on the empty space at the end of page, her signature slanted and firm.

She slides the stack of paper back to Thelonious and stands up, stretching her arms above her, an exultant energy running through her.

Thelonious nods at her.

“Thank you, Abby.” He lays a hand on her shoulder and nods at Marcus. “Thank you both, again, for all you’ve done. I’ll see you in two hours.” He puts the charter back in his jacket and turns to go, stopping at the exit. “Maybe take some time to rest, if you can. I don’t imagine we’ll be getting much sleep on the ride down.”

He shuts the door behind him, leaving Abby and Marcus alone in the council’s chambers.

She turns towards Marcus, unable to keep the smile from her face as she does.

“You made a law to protect witches,” she says, the words filling her with joy and hope and affection. “You made a law to protect us,” she repeats, and throws her arms around him, gripping him close. She breathes in heavily, her head pillowed on his chest, safe and secure in a way she hasn’t known in so long.  

“It was the right thing to do,” he says, one hand wrapped around her waist, the other running down the length of her hair. “No one should have to be afraid just because they exist.”

She nods into him, her eyes closing involuntarily at the feel of his fingers running across her scalp and through the wild strands of her hair.

“And now they won’t be - because of you.”

She feels him shake his head, his warm breath grazing past her ear as he ducks down.

“Because of you, Abby.”

She lifts her head and meets his gaze, warmth and care blazing in them, desire darkening the pupils of his eyes. It’s a look that leaves her breathless and anxious all at once; kissing Marcus now, again, without the threat of the final 48 hours, with the knowledge of a life that might come after, is a different choice to make - a heavier one, weighed down by burdens of their past, the uncertainty of their future.

She pushes that thought away from her. Reminds herself that all she has for sure are these next three hours and the man standing in front of her.

After all, she didn’t kiss Marcus Kane just because she thought they had 48 hours to live.

The honest, more insistent part of her kissed him just because she wanted to.

Just as she wants to now.

She closes the gap between them and presses her lips to his, sighing into his mouth when he immediately deepens the kiss. His hands come up to cup her face, the ends of his fingers working their way through the hair at her neck. His lips are soft and pliant, the kiss unhurried, almost gentle. She angles her head and presses herself against him, threading her hands through his hair. He moves a hand from her face and tangles it into her hair, his lips and tongue turning insistent and heavy.

She sways against him, partly, she knows, because of the feel of his mouth on hers, but partly also because the exhaustion of the past 12 hours on her feet is catching up to her.  

He must know it too because slowly, sweetly, and somewhat reluctantly, he breaks the kiss.

“Thelonious is right, you know,” he murmurs after he catches his breath, “you should sleep.”

She rests her head on his shoulder, drags her hands up and down the broad expanse of his back.

“I will when you will.”

He inhales deeply and drops a kiss across her hairline.

“Ok.”

She looks up at him, surprised.

“Ok?”

He smiles down at her.

“Abby, you don’t need to do much convincing to get me to sleep with you.” He laughs as her eyes widen, though there’s an endearing blush rising in his cheeks that she wants to put her lips on. “I mean, sleep next to you. Truthfully, I’m so exhausted right now that I’ll probably fall asleep the minute we lay down.” He brushes the hair back from her face and dips his head down until his mouth is right by her ear, his words rumbling through her. “Although, you don’t need to do any convincing to get me to sleep with you, either.”

She lets out strangled noise - the sound half a laugh, half a breathy sigh. She doesn’t say anything, simply cranes her neck up and plants a kiss on the outside corner of his jawline, a soft patch of skin that causes him to shiver against her.

“My oh my, isn’t this something.”

Nygel’s surprised drawl cuts through the air, shattering the moment.

Abby closes her eyes briefly before looking up at Marcus, his mouth set in a firm line. She sighs and moves her hands down from where they’re looped around his neck, brushes her fingertips down his arm and interlaces their fingers together. She steps out in front of him, as though to shield him from the force of Nygel’s contempt of her.

Nygel smiles at that, her eyes glittering with cold, dark rancor.  

“This must be new,” she says, pointing at the two of them. “Just a few weeks ago you both hated one another.” She tilts her head at that and glances at Abby. “Well, you hated him.” She grins, sharp as a knife’s edge, at Marcus. “You, though - you I’ve always thought had a rather suspect fixation on the lovely Abby Griffin here.”

“What are you doing here, Nygel?” Abby asks, wary and on edge.  

“Nothing good,” Nygel replies, walking to the opposite end of the table and resting against it. She looks at them both for a long moment, her dark eyes narrowing briefly, then widening with a glow of realization.

“This does make everything else make more sense, though.”

“What do you mean?” Marcus asks. Abby closes her eyes and wishes he hadn’t.  

“Why she told you, why she healed you,” Nygel replies, waving her hands at Marcus’s tall frame. “Why the whole ‘he’s a good man’ rhetoric all of a sudden.”

Marcus makes a noise of disbelief in the back of his throat. She looks up at him and sees an expression of surprise shot through with happiness on his face.  

Nygel crosses her arms in front of her, a cutting look in her eyes.

“So, let me guess - after Jaha tells us we only have two days left to live, you both figure why the hell not and just go for it. Make use of that ridiculous tension between the two of you.” She taps her fingers on the table. “Except now it’s just 3 hours left in space and a potential rest of your life on the ground.”

She looks back and forth between the two of them, a feral sort of glee in her eyes.

“I suppose that you both could still die, so all of this,” she says, gesturing towards them, “still isn’t quite real.”

She peers at them, a mock thoughtful expression on her face.

“Let’s assume you do both survive the trip down. What do you do with that second chance?” She turns towards Abby, who glares in return. “Do you still spend it with the man who sentenced your husband to his death?” She swivels her head towards Marcus, a stricken look on his face. “Do you try to make it work with the woman whose daughter you sent down to die?” She laughs, the sound cracked and flinty. “Oh, decisions, decisions.”

Abby steps forward, though she keeps her hand firmly wrapped in Marcus’.

“Nygel, you need to go,” she says, her tone cold and unforgiving.

Nygel smiles at her, genuine in a way that’s at odds with the simmering hostility in her eyes.  

“Of course,” she says, walking to the far wall. “I didn’t quite find what I was looking for, but I’m pretty satisfied anyway.” She flourishes a wave in their direction. “I’ll see you both at Mecha station in two hours,” she calls out, then steps sideways through the wall and disappears.  

Abby sighs and turns back towards Marcus, hating the uncertainty she feels in her movements. She looks up at him, wary, wondering at what she’ll find when she looks into his eyes, wondering what emotions he can see in hers.

She traces his features, avoiding his gaze for the moment. She’s spent years looking at him from across the table in this room, finding him lacking in grace and compassion. She’s spent the past two days wrapped in his arms, brushed up against the lines of his body, looking closely at a man draped in sorrow and begging for redemption.

One isn’t more real than the other.

If she could excuse away the last ten years with the last two days, if she could convince herself that salvation outweighs everything else, this entire absurd, impossible situation might be easier for her.

She can’t, though; so it isn’t.

“Did you really say that?” He asks quietly, breaking the wearied silence between the two of them.

She tilts her head up at him, finally meeting his eyes. They’re ringed with apprehension and hope and guilt. She can’t say what might be in hers.

“Say what?”

“That you think I’m a good man.”

She nods. It was true when she said it and it’s true now.

She just can’t say that it always has been.

“Yes.”

“Why?” He asks, a quiet sort of anguish in his voice.

She makes sure to keep her eyes on his.

“Because it’s true,” she finally says, a steadiness to her words that conflicts with the question in her heart.  

He shakes his head.

“What she said about Jake…about Clarke,” he breaths out forcefully, stepping away from her. “I did those things to them - to you, Abby. I can never take them back.”

She nearly flinches away from him, Nygel’s bitter words reverberating in her mind. She wishes she could brush them away as just another of set of barbed insults. But their brutality isn’t in the words themselves, but in the truth behind them.  

“I know, Marcus,” she says, the words a tired admission. She can offer him neither absolution or forgiveness. He doesn’t ask for it, and for this she’s glad. She isn’t sure if it it’s hers to give, if she would give it even if it were.

She looks at him for a long, quiet moment - tries to reconcile the man she knew with the man she sees before her; finds that no matter how she frames it, he is a good man who has still done terrible things.

It’s a contradiction that makes her hold herself away, even as she wants to fall into his embrace.

His decisions will always be a burden to bear. His choices will always be a part of who he is. Their shared past will always be fraught with betrayal and pain.

She wonders if it’ll eventually become an obstacle, too, again, once they’re forced to look up at it all from the ground.

Marcus covers her hand with his, traces the contours of her knuckles with his thumb. She sighs, reveling in the soft intimacy of the touch as she tries to pull away from thoughts that pull her from him.  

She just wants a moment where things aren’t complicated - even if it’s passing, even if it’s illusory.

“So, is she right?” He asks, looking down at their hands and then back up at her.

“About what?”

“About the 48 hours left in space.” He stares at her intently. “Is that why you kissed me?”

“Is that why you kissed me?” She shoots back quickly, mostly to buy herself some time. The answer is no and yes; the answer is longer than they might have time for.  

The answer seems close to unknowable right now.

He shakes his head, his lips curling in something that begins as a smile and ends as a grimace.

“That’s another thing Nygel was right about, Abby.” He huffs a small, humorless laugh before he meets her eyes. “Wanting to kiss you is not a new feeling for me.”

Her ready response sticks in her throat, the words suddenly crumbling and forgotten in the next moment. She closes her eyes, trying to parse through her feelings. Finds the task next to impossible - the swirl of her feelings too muddied, the feeling of exhaustion too near.

She doesn’t know how to feel about the ground before them or Nygel’s words that hang between them. She doesn’t know how to explain away the bitter truths of his decisions, how to decide on their undetermined future.

But she knows the man in front of her; she knows what she wants from this moment.

She opens her eyes again.

“We have two hours left here, Marcus. Then, we either burn up in space or find a way to live on the ground. Whatever happens…I know that I want to spend those next two hours with you.”

She doesn’t know if it’s enough or what he wants; she just know that it’s all she can give him, for now.

They’re both quiet for a long, tired moment.

Then, Marcus brings her hand up to his lips and kisses her gently across the backs of her fingers.

“C’mon, then,” he says softly, tugging her towards the couch that sits along the western end of the room.

He lays down, his back pressed against the cushions of the couch. She lays down next to him, her head pillowed on his bicep, his other arm wrapping around her waist and hugging her tightly against him. He buries his face in her hair and falls asleep almost immediately. She closes her eyes and relaxes against him, the warmth of his embrace, the steadiness of his breathing. In the next moment, she falls asleep too.

* * *

He wakes up, groggy and disoriented, a sense of alarm when he realizes he can’t move.

He shifts and hears a soft groan. He looks down and sees Abby’s peaceful face through the curtain of her hair, relaxes enough to check the time and reorient himself to their surroundings.

They’ve shifted in their sleep - him onto his back, Abby on her side facing him, cradled up against his neck.

Her face is tucked into the slope between his neck and shoulder, arm flung across his chest. He breathes in deeply, the scent of her surrounding him, and trails his fingertips up and down the slant of her arm, reveling in the softness of her skin.

It’s the thing that he’s relished most in these quiet bits of time - the softness of her. He’s spent years trading barbed words, pointed glares and sharp looks. Now he gets to indulge in the smoothness of her skin, the silken strands of her hair, the quiet brush of his name in her mouth.

Now, he thinks, and never again.

He stills the movements of his fingers and cups his hand along her elbow, his thumb drawing lazy circles across her skin. The smallness of her still takes him by surprise; that she should fit so comfortably, so easily within the circle of his arms, head tucked under his chin seems shocking, somehow. Everything about Abby has always been so fierce and demanding, her presence undeniable no matter the size of the room or the press of bodies within it.

He closes his eyes and thinks about the phrase that still short circuits in his brain -

_A good man._

He wonders at how Abby could’ve said it with such finality, with such fierceness in her eyes that he could not dare to contradict her.  

He’s not accustomed to seeing himself as a good man. The phrase itself seems to hang on him, resting uncomfortably against his skin like a jacket he’d left discarded and crumpled at the back of his closet for too long. Being a good man had not been part of the identity of keeping the Ark alive and moving forward. He had chosen the path of the pragmatic man, the unsentimental man, the man who could make the hard choices that no one else could.

And yet, he clings to the phrase all the same. He knows that good man is what Abby deserves, just as he knows that a good man is not who he has been for much of his life.

He breathes in deeply and maps the feeling of her in his arms - the wild tangle of her hair across his chest, the curve of her waist under his hand, the gentle warmth of her breath against his neck. He knows that this is likely to be the last time he can indulge in this, in her. Either their lives end in the next hour and a half, the coldness of space swallowing up their failed attempt; or else, they arrive safe on the ground and the weight of their past and his choices become a burden too heavy to bear.

It stings, even as he knows that he’s gotten more than he ever hoped for, more than he’ll ever deserve.

It tears at him, even as he thinks it’s a fitting punishment for his long list of sins. To know what’s possible, to get what had always been the most absurd what if - and then have it lost to him is a cruelest sort of justice.

Perhaps just the sort of justice he deserves, then.

He glances down at Abby’s peaceful, resting form - a serenity to her features he’s hardly ever known. His eyes dip down to the gentle curve of her lips and, for a moment, he nearly gives into the urge to kiss her awake. He doesn’t - though just barely. Instead, he allows himself to reflect back on the words he almost wants to regret, but doesn’t -

 _Wanting to kiss you is not a new feeling for me_.

He can clearly see her reaction in his mind’s eye - the wide-eyed shock on her face, the small o of surprise that her mouth made. He can’t blame her; he’d spent year upon year disregarding the pull of her, cloaking his feelings in anger and irritation and impatience, until he’d been able to so thoroughly convince even himself that his frustration had been of a different sort altogether. One born of enmity rather than of want.

He had thrown that illusion away the moment he crawled into that burning maintenance tunnel. And once he had, he could no longer fit it comfortably back over his eyes; his want of her outpaced his need for self-preservation.

Just as his want of her outweighs his sense of cold practicality in this moment. He knows that to indulge in these last few tender moments will make her push away from him on the ground all that much harder for him. But he’ll take this sweet form of self-flagellation now over the more distant requirement of self-interest.

Abby shifts, ducking her head down to rest on his chest, moving until she’s half draped across him. He shakes himself out of his thoughts and wraps an arm around her shoulders, traces idle patterns along the exposed skin along her shoulder blade.

She makes a humming sound at the back her throat and settles in closer to him. He smiles and, on impulse, allows himself to drop a kiss across the top of her head.

They lay quietly like that for a few minutes. Then, she moves her hand down his chest to where his other hand is resting. She tangles their fingers together and brings his hand up to her mouth, brushes a gentle kiss across his knuckles before she speaks.

“Do we need to get up?”

He peers over her head at the clock on the far wall.

“Probably,” he murmurs, his heart sinking at the reality of it all. ”Someone will come looking for us soon if we don’t.”  

She nods against him, but doesn’t move; simply brushes another featherlight kiss across the backs of his fingers and presses the tips of her fingers into the indents between his knuckles.

She lets go of his hand and lets her fingers drift up along the slope of his jaw. He sighs and presses his cheek into her palm, ducking his head down as she shifts upward against his body.

Her lips are soft and inviting, her mouth opening slowly under his as he presses closer against her. He kisses her gently, his movements languid and slow, as if they have all the time they’ll never get. His fingers are in her hair, her hands are cupped around his face, their movements tender and easy and sensual all at once.

She sighs against him and slowly backs away from the kiss. His eyes are still closed as she presses her lips one last time against his mouth. 

He tries to tell himself that it doesn’t feel like a goodbye, but he isn’t sure how good he is at lying to himself any more when it comes to Abby.

He opens his eyes and finds it easy to smile down at her, the headiness of the kiss still thrumming in his veins. She looks up at him, eyes dark with desire and some other, more inscrutable emotion, and smiles back at him before rolling away and standing up.

He swings his legs over the couch and reaches over to put his jacket on while Abby smooths out her rumpled clothes and looks around for her own jacket. He finishes tying his shoes just as Abby finishing re-braiding the long, thick strands of her hair.

She glances over at him as he stands and stretches.

“Ready?”

He nods and they walk towards the door, the silence between them heavy and unfamiliar.

Before they step out into the hallways, Abby reaches out and grasps his hand in hers.

“Marcus, I - ” she begins, then stops abruptly. She stares at him for a moment, then leans forward and kisses him. She smiles when he opens his eyes once more. “I just wanted to say thank you. For everything these past few days.”

He nods and swallows thickly. Can’t tell whether the note of emotion in her words is a cause for dejection or hope.

“You’re welcome,” is all he says in reply, reaching over and tracing the lines of her braid as he does. He lets his eyes linger over the soft lines of her face for one last moment before he opens the door and steps out into the hall.

She stretches her hand out to his and twines their fingers together; he blinks quickly in surprise, glancing over at her, but she only looks ahead and keeps walking as if the action bears little weight at all. He smiles at that, and they walk hand in hand in an easier kind of silence until they hit the last hallway before Mecha Station. Then, he squeezes her hand and drops it before they’re caught up in the throng of people gathered outside of the departing station.

The next hour is a surprisingly quiet, calm proceeding, the crowds of people as well-equipped and well-prepared for the journey down as he could’ve hoped. Abby isn’t too far from him the entire time as they stand and process the citizens for their final journey to the ground. He thinks he manages to keep his feelings for her from presenting across his features, though Sinclair’s steady, smirking looks in his direction seem to suggest otherwise. His mother, too, keeps glancing at him with an expression that seems torn between worry and satisfaction.

He finishes processing his sections of citizens ahead of her and stands awkwardly at the entrance of the station, torn between waiting for her and going to find his place amidst the press of people.   
Sinclair steps in next to him, his eyes focused on the data pad in his hand.

“Remember what I said about looking at her that way, Marcus?” Sinclair asks with a teasing drawl.

He turns away from Abby, abashed, and clears his throat.  

“How’s everything looking?”

Sinclair looks up from his data pad, a wicked grin on his face.

“Close to sickening, from where I’m standing,” he says, his eyes darting between Marcus and Abby.

Marcus huffs, impatient and embarrassed.

“I mean with the launch.”

Sinclair chuckles darkly.

“Oh, that,” he replies, waving the data pad in hand. “Well, considering we’re trying to use the port thrusters of our hundred year old space station to somewhat gently crash land onto the surface of the earth - .” He shrugs. “Not too bad.”

Suddenly, Jaha’s voice cuts into both their headsets

“Mecha station, are you set?”

Marcus looks over to where Abby’s standing, the last of her citizens filing into the station. She nods to him and begins walking over.

“Yes, sir. All our people are packed in. Abby, Sinclair and I will be engaging the airlock momentarily.”

The three of them hustle into the crowded space of Mecha Station, firmly engaging the airlock behind them. He and Abby walk over to an empty spot in the middle of the corridor, next to his mother, Sinclair sits down across from them.

He sits down and smiles warmly at his mom, who smiles back and squeezes his knee before leaning her head back and mouthing a silent prayer. Abby settles in next to him, her knees drawn up, her arms looped casually on top of them. Her arm brushes up against his; he wants to reach out and loop his hand around hers, but twists his fingers together instead.

He hears each station call out their readiness, can barely hear them over the thud of his heart. Jaha begins the Traveller’s Blessing and he mouths along the words even as his mind drifts to thoughts of flowers and trees and sunlight.

“Sinclair,” he hears Jaha say, “take us home.”

Sinclair begins the initiation process, anticipation beading in his normally even voice. Marcus breathes in deeply, ready for the blast of bombs and the blistering, uncertain journey down. He feels Abby’s fingers brush against his at the count five, reaches over and wraps her fingers in his at the sound of three.

He braces himself for the rumble of bombs and feels -

Nothing.

He looks over at Abby, shock and despair warring across her face even as Sinclair’s frantic voice sounds across from him.

“Sir, remote detonations failed,” cries out to Jaha’s queries, shifting uneasily in his seat. “We are negative for go-sci separation, negative for launch.”

“Can you fix it?” Jaha asks, his voice desperate even in the tinny receiver in Marcus’ ear.

He watches as Sinclair stares determinedly at his data pad, then shakes his head.

“Not from here, sir, no,” he says, the tension standing out in obvious lines across his features. He sighs heavily, the admission torn from him reluctantly. “Someone will have to launch manually.”

There’s a deep, despairing silence across the room and across the channels. Marcus sees the words shimmer in the air before him, along with another weighty phrase that call out to him -  

You’re a good man.

He looks down and grits his teeth, pushes out love and comfort and belief as hard as he can manage. He hears his mother take in a disbelieving gasp before he reaches up and undoes the safety belt mooring him into place.

Abby reaches both hands out to stop him, panic evident in her movements.

“What are you doing?” She asks, gripping his hands tightly, her eyes wide with disbelief.

He levels a calm, resolute look at her.

“Someone has to stay behind, Abby,” he says, the words gentle, his tone brooking no argument.

She ignores it, his words, the firm press of his mouth.

“No, Marcus,” she says, commanding and desperate. “This isn’t the way.” She peers around him and looks to his mother. “Vera, tell him this isn’t the way.”

He flares his emotions out, embracing them in a way that almost hurts, in a way that pushes him further towards what he’s about to do. His mother lets out a small sob even as she looks to Abby and shakes her head.

“It’s the only one he sees, Abby,” his mother says, her eyes bowing in grief before she kisses him softly on the cheek and looks away.

Abby shakes her head and looks at him, frantic and despairing.

“There has to be another way,” she says, her words aimed at him even as she turns and looks towards Sinclair.

He doesn’t miss the pleading note that crawls into her voice at the last word, though; it tugs at him in a way that aches.

Sinclair looks down at his datapad.

“I can go back and reprogram the system, but it’ll take time. We’ll miss the window for the eastern United States. We won’t land anywhere near the Hundred.”

Abby lunges for the words, grasps at them like a lifeline.

“Then we’ll wait till it comes back around again,” she states, even though he knows she understands the impossibility of her words.

“The Ark will be out of air by then,” Sinclair says softly, his eyes wide with sadness as he looks back and forth between the two of them.

Marcus entangles Abby’s fingers in his, brings them up to his mouth and kisses her across the the tops of her fingers. He’s halfway aware that half the station is watching this play out; he can’t find it in him to care.

“Abby,” he murmurs, gentle in the way his actions can’t be, “this is the only way to ensure that you can make it down to Clarke. You’ll get see your daughter again.” He looks at her directly, lays his emotions bare across his face in a way that he never has before. She takes a shuddering breath in as he continues. “That alone makes this worth it.”

She shakes her head, disbelief and sorrow washing over her features.

“This wasn’t the way it was supposed to be,” she says softly.

He swallows, his throat tight.

“Salvation…comes at a price.”

Her expression falls, her mouth pressing into a firm, thin line. He lets himself indulge in her for one last, long moment - imagines the dark sweep of her eyelashes pressed against her cheeks as she turns her face up to the sun, pictures her warm brown eyes staring up in awe at the tall shadows of pine trees, sees her gathering up flowers of every kind, their beauty still pale in comparison to her own.  

He may not live to see it, but to know that he made it possible will be enough to take him into the next life.

He reaches over and lays his hand hand against her cheek, brushing his thumb across the rise of her cheekbone one last time. She leans into his palm and presses a kiss to the pulsepoint at his wrist, her lips quivering against his skin in the last moment before she withdraws from him.

He leans forward and braces his hands against his knees, ready to stand up when a loud series of concussive blasts rocks him back down.

Jaha’s voice rings out across the shaking, shuddering station.

“Godspeed, my friends. Godspeed.”

He stares, wide-eyed and shaken, first at Abby, then at Sinclair.

“Thelonious,” he hears Abby say, her voice sharp, “where are you?”

“Right where I’m supposed to be,” Jaha says with a confidence that throws Marcus into a swirl of despair. “Hold on tight, Abby. You’ll see your daughter soon.”

The intercom beeps off, the rattling of the station swelling to a level that’s nearly deafening.

He looks over at Abby, his mind caught between guilt and gladness, his heart thudding with shame and incredulity.

Abby returns his glance, her eyes dancing with relief and pain, anxiety and excitement.

She grabs onto his hand once more, wrapping it in both of hers, as she leans into him.

She doesn’t let go the entire time. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's season 1! Thanks so much for reading my fun little witch AU. Keep your eyes out for the sequel - a re-write of events in season 2. It'll be titled An Alchemy of Starlight and will hopefully be coming out in the next few weeks. 
> 
> Thank you so much for those of you who have been along for the ride. This has been by far the longest thing I've ever written and something I'm particularly proud of. It's been so much fun to write and so great hearing from those of you reading it.


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